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'Look at me,' she said, 'who have never known what it is to have an
honest heart, and love. Look at me, taught to scheme and plot when children
play; and married in my youth - an old age of design - to one for whom I had
no feeling but indifference. Look at me, whom he left a widow, dying before
his inheritance descended to him - a judgment on you! well deserved! - and
tell me what has been my life for ten years since.'
'We have been making every effort to endeavour to secure to you a good
establishment,' rejoined her mother. 'That has been your life. And now you
have got it.'
'There is no slave in a market: there is no horse in a fair: so shown
and offered and examined and paraded, Mother, as I have been, for ten
shameful years,' cried Edith, with a burning brow, and the same bitter
emphasis on the one word. 'Is it not so? Have I been made the bye-word of
all kinds of men? Have fools, have profligates, have boys, have dotards,
dangled after me, and one by one rejected me, and fallen off, because you
were too plain with all your cunning: yes, and too true, with all those
false pretences: until we have almost come to be notorious? The licence of
look and touch,' she said, with flashing eyes, 'have I submitted to it, in
half the places of resort upon the map of England? Have I been hawked and
vended here and there, until the last grain of self-respect is dead within
me, and I loathe myself? Has been my late childhood? I had none before. Do
not tell me that I had, tonight of all nights in my life!'
'You might have been well married,' said her mother, 'twenty times at
least, Edith, if you had given encouragement enough.'
'No! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I well deserve to be,' she
answered, raising her head, and trembling in her energy of shame and stormy
pride, 'shall take me, as this man does, with no art of mine put forth to
lure him. He sees me at the auction, and he thinks it well to buy me. Let
him! When he came to view me - perhaps to bid - he required to see the roll
of my accomplishments. I gave it to him. When he would have me show one of
them, to justify his purchase to his men, I require of him to say which he
demands, and I exhibit it. I will do no more. He makes the purchase of his
own will, and with his own sense of its worth, and the power of his money;
and I hope it may never disappoint him. I have not vaunted and pressed the
bargain; neither have you, so far as I have been able to prevent you.
'You talk strangely to-night, Edith, to your own Mother.'
'It seems so to me; stranger to me than you,' said Edith. 'But my
education was completed long ago. I am too old now, and have fallen too low,
by degrees, to take a new course, and to stop yours, and to help myself. The
germ of all that purifies a woman's breast, and makes it true and good, has
never stirred in mine, and I have nothing else to sustain me when I despise
myself.' There had been a touching sadness in her voice, but it was gone,
when she went on to say, with a curled lip, 'So, as we are genteel and poor,
I am content that we should be made rich by these means; all I say is, I
have kept the only purpose I have had the strength to form - I had almost
said the power, with you at my side, Mother - and have not tempted this man
on.'
'This man! You speak,' said her mother, 'as if you hated him.'
'And you thought I loved him, did you not?' she answered, stopping on
her way across the room, and looking round. 'Shall I tell you,' she
continued, with her eyes fixed on her mother, 'who already knows us
thoroughly, and reads us right, and before whom I have even less of
self-respect or confidence than before my own inward self; being so much
degraded by his knowledge of me?'
'This is an attack, I suppose,' returned her mother coldly, 'on poor,
unfortunate what's-his-name - Mr Carker! Your want of self-respect and
confidence, my dear, in reference to that person (who is very agreeable, it
strikes me), is not likely to have much effect on your establishment. Why do
you look at me so hard? Are you ill?'
Edith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been stung, and while
she pressed her hands upon it, a terrible tremble crept over her whole
frame. It was quickly gone; and with her usual step, she passed out of the
room.
The maid who should have been a skeleton, then reappeared, and giving
one arm to her mistress, who appeared to have taken off her manner with her
charms, and to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown, collected the
ashes of Cleopatra, and carried them away in the other, ready for tomorrow's
revivification.
Alterations
'So the day has come at length, Susan,' said Florence to the excellent
Nipper, 'when we are going back to our quiet home!'
Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expression not easily
described, further relieving her feelings with a smart cough, answered,
'Very quiet indeed, Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.'
'When I was a child,' said Florence, thoughtfully, and after musing for
some moments, 'did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the trouble to
ride down here to speak to me, now three times - three times, I think,
Susan?'
'Three times, Miss,' returned the Nipper. 'Once when you was out a
walking with them Sket- '
Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper checked herself.
'With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young
gentleman. And two evenings since then.'
'When I was a child, and when company used to come to visit Papa, did
you ever see that gentleman at home, Susan?' asked Florence.
'Well, Miss,' returned her maid, after considering, 'I really couldn't
say I ever did. When your poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new in
the family, you see, and my element:' the Nipper bridled, as opining that
her merits had been always designedly extinguished by Mr Dombey: 'was the
floor below the attics.'
'To be sure,' said Florence, still thoughtfully; 'you are not likely to
have known who came to the house. I quite forgot.'
'Not, Miss, but what we talked about the family and visitors,' said
Susan, 'and but what I heard much said, although the nurse before Mrs
Richards make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint at little
Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing,' observed Susan,
with composed forbearance, 'to habits of intoxication, for which she was
required to leave, and did.'
Florence, who was seated at her chamber window, with her face resting
on her hand, sat looking out, and hardly seemed to hear what Susan said, she
was so lost in thought.
'At all events, Miss,' said Susan, 'I remember very well that this same
gentleman, Mr Carker, was almost, if not quite, as great a gentleman with
your Papa then, as he is now. It used to be said in the house then, Miss,
that he was at the head of all your Pa's affairs in the City, and managed
the whole, and that your Pa minded him more than anybody, which, begging
your pardon, Miss Floy, he might easy do, for he never minded anybody else.
I knew that, Pitcher as I might have been.'
Susan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the nurse before Mrs
Richards, emphasised 'Pitcher' strongly.
'And that Mr Carker has not fallen off, Miss,' she pursued, 'but has
stood his ground, and kept his credit with your Pa, I know from what is
always said among our people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the house;
and though he's the weakest weed in the world, Miss Floy, and no one can
have a moment's patience with the man, he knows what goes on in the City
tolerable well, and says that your Pa does nothing without Mr Carker, and
leaves all to Mr Carker, and acts according to Mr Carker, and has Mr Carker
always at his elbow, and I do believe that he believes (that washiest of
Perches!) that after your Pa, the Emperor of India is the child unborn to Mr
Carker.'
Not a word of this was lost on Florence, who, with an awakened interest
in Susan's speech, no longer gazed abstractedly on the prospect without, but
looked at her, and listened with attention.
'Yes, Susan,' she said, when that young lady had concluded. 'He is in
Papa's confidence, and is his friend, I am sure.'
Florence's mind ran high on this theme, and had done for some days. Mr
Carker, in the two visits with which he had followed up his first one, had
assumed a confidence between himself and her - a right on his part to be
mysterious and stealthy, in telling her that the ship was still unheard of -
a kind of mildly restrained power and authority over her - that made her
wonder, and caused her great uneasiness. She had no means of repelling it,
or of freeing herself from the web he was gradually winding about her; for
that would have required some art and knowledge of the world, opposed to
such address as his; and Florence had none. True, he had said no more to her
than that there was no news of the ship, and that he feared the worst; but
how he came to know that she was interested in the ship, and why he had the
right to signify his knowledge to her, so insidiously and darkly, troubled
Florence very much.
This conduct on the part of Mr Carker, and her habit of often
considering it with wonder and uneasiness, began to invest him with an
uncomfortable fascination in Florence's thoughts. A more distinct
remembrance of his features, voice, and manner: which she sometimes courted,
as a means of reducing him to the level of a real personage, capable of
exerting no greater charm over her than another: did not remove the vague
impression. And yet he never frowned, or looked upon her with an air of
dislike or animosity, but was always smiling and serene.
Again, Florence, in pursuit of her strong purpose with reference to her
father, and her steady resolution to believe that she was herself
unwittingly to blame for their so cold and distant relations, would recall
to mind that this gentleman was his confidential friend, and would think,
with an anxious heart, could her struggling tendency to dislike and fear him
be a part of that misfortune in her, which had turned her father's love
adrift, and left her so alone? She dreaded that it might be; sometimes
believed it was: then she resolved that she would try to conquer this wrong
feeling; persuaded herself that she was honoured and encouraged by the
notice of her father's friend; and hoped that patient observation of him and
trust in him would lead her bleeding feet along that stony road which ended
in her father's heart.
Thus, with no one to advise her - for she could advise with no one
without seeming to complain against him - gentle Florence tossed on an
uneasy sea of doubt and hope; and Mr Carker, like a scaly monster of the
deep, swam down below, and kept his shining eye upon her. Florence had a new
reason in all this for wishing to be at home again. Her lonely life was
better suited to her course of timid hope and doubt; and she feared
sometimes, that in her absence she might miss some hopeful chance of
testifying her affection for her father. Heaven knows, she might have set
her mind at rest, poor child! on this last point; but her slighted love was
fluttering within her, and, even in her sleep, it flew away in dreams, and
nestled, like a wandering bird come home, upon her father's neck.
Of Walter she thought often. Ah! how often, when the night was gloomy,
and the wind was blowing round the house! But hope was strong in her breast.
It is so difficult for the young and ardent, even with such experience as
hers, to imagine youth and ardour quenched like a weak flame, and the bright
day of life merging into night, at noon, that hope was strong yet. Her tears
fell frequently for Walter's sufferings; but rarely for his supposed death,
and never long.
She had written to the old Instrument-maker, but had received no answer
to her note: which indeed required none. Thus matters stood with Florence on
the morning when she was going home, gladly, to her old secluded life.
Doctor and Mrs Blimber, accompanied (much against his will) by their
valued charge, Master Barnet, were already gone back to Brighton, where that
young gentleman and his fellow-pilgrims to Parnassus were then, no doubt, in
the continual resumption of their studies. The holiday time was past and
over; most of the juvenile guests at the villa had taken their departure;
and Florence's long visit was come to an end.
There was one guest, however, albeit not resident within the house, who
had been very constant in his attentions to the family, and who still
remained devoted to them. This was Mr Toots, who after renewing, some weeks
ago, the acquaintance he had had the happiness of forming with Skettles
Junior, on the night when he burst the Blimberian bonds and soared into
freedom with his ring on, called regularly every other day, and left a
perfect pack of cards at the hall-door; so many indeed, that the ceremony
was quite a deal on the part of Mr Toots, and a hand at whist on the part of
the servant.
Mr Toots, likewise, with the bold and happy idea of preventing the
family from forgetting him (but there is reason to suppose that this
expedient originated in the teeming brain of the Chicken), had established a
six-oared cutter, manned by aquatic friends of the Chicken's and steered by
that illustrious character in person, who wore a bright red fireman's coat
for the purpose, and concealed the perpetual black eye with which he was
afflicted, beneath a green shade. Previous to the institution of this
equipage, Mr Toots sounded the Chicken on a hypothetical case, as, supposing
the Chicken to be enamoured of a young lady named Mary, and to have
conceived the intention of starting a boat of his own, what would he call
that boat? The Chicken replied, with divers strong asseverations, that he
would either christen it Poll or The Chicken's Delight. Improving on this
idea, Mr Toots, after deep study and the exercise of much invention,
resolved to call his boat The Toots's Joy, as a delicate compliment to
Florence, of which no man knowing the parties, could possibly miss the
appreciation.
Stretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant bark, with his shoes in
the air, Mr Toots, in the exercise of his project, had come up the river,
day after day, and week after week, and had flitted to and fro, near Sir
Barnet's garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and across the river
at sharp angles, for his better exhibition to any lookers-out from Sir
Barnet's windows, and had had such evolutions performed by the Toots's Joy
as had filled all the neighbouring part of the water-side with astonishment.
But whenever he saw anyone in Sir Barnet's garden on the brink of the river,
Mr Toots always feigned to be passing there, by a combination of
coincidences of the most singular and unlikely description.
'How are you, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say, waving his hand from the
lawn, while the artful Chicken steered close in shore.
'How de do, Sir Barnet?' Mr Toots would answer, What a surprising thing
that I should see you here!'
Mr Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, instead of that
being Sir Barnet's house, it were some deserted edifice on the banks of the
Nile, or Ganges.
'I never was so surprised!' Mr Toots would exclaim. - 'Is Miss Dombey
there?'
Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps.
'Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey,' Toots would cry. 'I called
to ask this morning.'
'Thank you very much!' the pleasant voice of Florence would reply.
'Won't you come ashore, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say then. 'Come!
you're in no hurry. Come and see us.'
'Oh, it's of no consequence, thank you!' Mr Toots would blushingly
rejoin. 'I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, that's all. Good-bye!'
And poor Mr Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation, but hadn't the
courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with an aching heart, and away went
the Joy, cleaving the water like an arrow.
The Joy was lying in a state of extraordinary splendour, at the garden
steps, on the morning of Florence's departure. When she went downstairs to
take leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr Toots awaiting her in
the drawing-room.
'Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey?' said the stricken Toots, always
dreadfully disconcerted when the desire of his heart was gained, and he was
speaking to her; 'thank you, I'm very well indeed, I hope you're the same,
so was Diogenes yesterday.'
'You are very kind,' said Florence.
'Thank you, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'I thought
perhaps you wouldn't mind, in this fine weather, coming home by water, Miss
Dombey. There's plenty of room in the boat for your maid.'
'I am very much obliged to you,' said Florence, hesitating. 'I really
am - but I would rather not.'
'Oh, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'Good morning.'
'Won't you wait and see Lady Skettles?' asked Florence, kindly.
'Oh no, thank you,' returned Mr Toots, 'it's of no consequence at all.'
So shy was Mr Toots on such occasions, and so flurried! But Lady
Skettles entering at the moment, Mr Toots was suddenly seized with a passion
for asking her how she did, and hoping she was very well; nor could Mr Toots
by any possibility leave off shaking hands with her, until Sir Barnet
appeared: to whom he immediately clung with the tenacity of desperation.
'We are losing, today, Toots,' said Sir Barnet, turning towards
Florence, 'the light of our house, I assure you'
'Oh, it's of no conseq - I mean yes, to be sure,' faltered the
embarrassed Mr Toots. 'Good morning!'
Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, Mr Toots, instead
of going away, stood leering about him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve him,
bade adieu, with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm to Sir
Barnet.
'May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey,' said her host, as he conducted
her to the carriage, 'to present my best compliments to your dear Papa?'
It was distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt
as if she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe that a
kindness rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not
explain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him; and again she thought
that the dull home, free from such embarrassments, and such reminders of her
sorrow, was her natural and best retreat.
Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the
villa, came running from within, and from the garden, to say good-bye. They
were all attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her. Even the
household were sorry for her going, and the servants came nodding and
curtseying round the carriage door. As Florence looked round on the kind
faces, and saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his lady, and of Mr Toots,
who was chuckling and staring at her from a distance, she was reminded of
the night when Paul and she had come from Doctor Blimber's: and when the
carriage drove away, her face was wet with tears.
Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too; for all the softer
memories connected with the dull old house to which she was returning made
it dear to her, as they rose up. How long it seemed since she had wandered
through the silent rooms: since she had last crept, softly and afraid, into
those her father occupied: since she had felt the solemn but yet soothing
influence of the beloved dead in every action of her daily life! This new
farewell reminded her, besides, of her parting with poor Walter: of his
looks and words that night: and of the gracious blending she had noticed in
him, of tenderness for those he left behind, with courage and high spirit.
His little history was associated with the old house too, and gave it a new
claim and hold upon her heart. Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home
of so many years, as they were on their way towards it. Gloomy as it was,
and rigid justice as she rendered to its gloom, she forgave it a great deal.
'I shall be glad to see it again, I don't deny, Miss,' said the Nipper.
'There ain't much in it to boast of, but I wouldn't have it burnt or pulled
down, neither!'
'You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't you, Susan?' said
Florence, smiling.
'Well, Miss,' returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards the
house, as they approached it nearer, 'I won't deny but what I shall, though
I shall hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely.'
Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace within it than
elsewhere. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there, among
the tall dark walls, than to carry it abroad into the light, and try to hide
it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the study of her
loving heart, alone, and find no new discouragements in loving hearts about
her. It was easier to hope, and pray, and love on, all uncared for, yet with
constancy and patience, in the tranquil sanctuary of such remembrances:
although it mouldered, rusted, and decayed about her: than in a new scene,
let its gaiety be what it would. She welcomed back her old enchanted dream
of life, and longed for the old dark door to close upon her, once again.
Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and sombre street.
Florence was not on that side of the carriage which was nearest to her home,
and as the distance lessened between them and it, she looked out of her
window for the children over the way.
She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to turn
quickly round.
'Why, Gracious me!' cried Susan, breathless, 'where's our house!'
'Our house!' said Florence.
Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew
it in again as the carriage stopped, and stared at her mistress in
amazement.
There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house, from
the basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar,
and piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of the broad street
at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls; labourers were climbing
up and down; men were at work upon the steps of the scaffolding; painters
and decorators were busy inside; great rolls of ornamental paper were being
delivered from a cart at the door; an upholsterer's waggon also stopped the
way; no furniture was to be seen through the gaping and broken windows in
any of the rooms; nothing but workmen, and the implements of their several
trades, swarming from the kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike:
bricklayers, painters, carpenters, masons: hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw,
and trowel: all at work together, in full chorus!
Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it were, or could
be the right house, until she recognised Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face,
standing at the door to receive her.
'There is nothing the matter?' inquired Florence.
'Oh no, Miss.'
'There are great alterations going on.'
'Yes, Miss, great alterations,' said Towlinson.
Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried upstairs.
The garish light was in the long-darkened drawing-room and there were steps
and platforms, and men In paper caps, in the high places. Her mother's
picture was gone with the rest of the moveables, and on the mark where it
had been, was scrawled in chalk, 'this room in panel. Green and gold.' The
staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the outside of the house,
and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was reclining in various
attitudes, on the skylight. Her own room was not yet touched within, but
there were beams and boards raised against it without, baulking the
daylight. She went up swiftly to that other bedroom, where the little bed
was; and a dark giant of a man with a pipe in his mouth, and his head tied
up in a pocket-handkerchief, was staring in at the window.
It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest of Florence, found
her, and said, would she go downstairs to her Papa, who wished to speak to
her.
'At home! and wishing to speak to me!' cried Florence, trembling.
Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Florence herself,
repeated her errand; and Florence, pale and agitated, hurried down again,
without a moment's hesitation. She thought upon the way down, would she dare
to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved her, and she thought she
would.
Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his
presence. One instant, and it would have beat against his breast.
But he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence
stopped. Striving so hard with her emotion, that if her brute friend Di had
not burst in and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home - at
which one of the ladies gave a little scream, and that diverted her
attention from herself - she would have swooned upon the floor.
'Florence,' said her father, putting out his hand: so stiffly that it
held her off: 'how do you do?'
Florence took the hand between her own, and putting it timidly to her
lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting it, with
quite as much endearment as it had touched her.
'What dog is that?' said Mr Dombey, displeased.
'It is a dog, Papa - from Brighton.'
'Well!' said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his face, for he
understood her.
'He is very good-tempered,' said Florence, addressing herself with her
natural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. 'He is only glad to
see me. Pray forgive him.'
She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the lady who had
screamed, and who was seated, was old; and that the other lady, who stood
near her Papa, was very beautiful, and of an elegant figure.
'Mrs Skewton,' said her father, turning to the first, and holding out
his hand, 'this is my daughter Florence.'
'Charming, I am sure,' observed the lady, putting up her glass. 'So
natural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please.'
Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady, by whom her
father stood waiting.
'Edith,' said Mr Dombey, 'this is my daughter Florence. Florence, this
lady will soon be your Mama.'
Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict of
emotions, among which the tears that name awakened, struggled for a moment
with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of fear. Then
she cried out, 'Oh, Papa, may you be happy! may you be very, very happy all
your life!' and then fell weeping on the lady's bosom.
There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who at first had seemed
to hesitate whether or no she should advance to Florence, held her to her
breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her, close about her
waist, as if to reassure her and comfort her. Not one word passed the lady's
lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed her on the cheek,
but she said no word.
'Shall we go on through the rooms,' said Mr Dombey, 'and see how our
workmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam.'
He said this in offering his arm to Mrs Skewton, who had been looking
at Florence through her glass, as though picturing to herself what she might
be made, by the infusion - from her own copious storehouse, no doubt - of a
little more Heart and Nature. Florence was still sobbing on the lady's
breast, and holding to her, when Mr Dombey was heard to say from the
Conservatory:
'Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she?'
'Edith, my dear!' cried Mrs Skewton, 'where are you? Looking for Mr
Dombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love.'
The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and pressing her lips
once more upon her face, withdrew hurriedly, and joined them. Florence
remained standing In the same place: happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears, she
knew not how, or how long, but all at once: when her new Mama came back, and
took her in her arms again.
'Florence,' said the lady, hurriedly, and looking into her face with
great earnestness. 'You will not begin by hating me?'
'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!
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 Chic '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 should I do
anything else? There is no reason; it would be absurd. But I wish to express
myself clearly, Lucretia; and therefore to go back to that remark, I must
beg to say that it was not intended to relate to Florence, in any way.'
'Indeed!' returned Miss Tox.
'No,' said Mrs Chick shortly and decisively.
'Pardon me, my dear,' rejoined her meek friend; 'but I cannot have
understood it. I fear I am dull.'
Mrs Chick looked round the room and over the way; at the plants, at the
bird, at the watering-pot, at almost everything within view, except Miss
Tox; and finally dropping her glance upon Miss Tox, for a moment, on its way
to the ground, said, looking meanwhile with elevated eyebrows at the carpet:
'When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the name, I speak of my
brother Paul's second wife. I believe I have already said, in effect, if not
in the very words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a second
wife.'
Miss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to her plants; clipping
among the stems and leaves, with as little favour as a barber working at so
many pauper heads of hair.
'Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction conferred upon
her,' said Mrs Chick, in a lofty tone, 'is quite another question. I hope
she may be. We are bound to think well of one another in this world, and I
hope she may be. I have not been advised with myself If I had been advised
with, I have no doubt my advice would have been cavalierly received, and
therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it as it is.'
Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among the plants. Mrs
Chick, with energetic shakings of her own head from time to time, continued
to hold forth, as if in defiance of somebody. 'If my brother Paul had
consulted with me, which he sometimes does - or rather, sometimes used to
do; for he will naturally do that no more now, and this is a circumstance
which I regard as a relief from responsibility,' said Mrs Chick,
hysterically, 'for I thank Heaven I am not jealous - ' here Mrs Chick again
shed tears: 'if my brother Paul had come to me, and had said, "Louisa, what
kind of qualities would you advise me to look out for, in a wife?" I should
certainly have answered, "Paul, you must have family, you must have beauty,
you must have dignity, you must have connexion." Those are the words I
should have used. You might have led me to the block immediately
afterwards,' said Mrs Chick, as if that consequence were highly probable,
'but I should have used them. I should have said, "Paul! You to marry a
second time without family! You to marry without beauty! You to marry
without dignity! You to marry without connexion! There is nobody in the
world, not mad, who could dream of daring to entertain such a preposterous
idea!"'
Miss Tox stopped clipping; and with her head among the plants, listened
attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox thought there was hope in this exordium, and
the warmth of Mrs Chick.
I should have adopted this course of argument,' pursued the discreet
lady, 'because I trust I am not a fool. I make no claim to be considered a
person of superior intellect - though I believe some people have been
extraordinary enough to consider me so; one so little humoured as I am,
would very soon be disabused of any such notion; but I trust I am not a
downright fool. And to tell ME,' said Mrs Chick with ineffable disdain,
'that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate the possibility of
uniting himself to anybody - I don't care who' - she was more sharp and
emphatic in that short clause than in any other part of her discourse - 'not
possessing these requisites, would be to insult what understanding I have
got, as much as if I was to be told that I was born and bred an elephant,
which I may be told next,' said Mrs Chick, with resignation. 'It wouldn't
surprise me at all. I expect it.'
In the moment's silence that ensued, Miss Tox's scissors gave a feeble
clip or two; but Miss Tox's face was still invisible, and Miss Tox's morning
gown was agitated. Mrs Chick looked sideways at her, through the intervening
plants, and went on to say, in a tone of bland conviction, and as one
dwelling on a point of fact that hardly required to be stated:
honest heart, and love. Look at me, taught to scheme and plot when children
play; and married in my youth - an old age of design - to one for whom I had
no feeling but indifference. Look at me, whom he left a widow, dying before
his inheritance descended to him - a judgment on you! well deserved! - and
tell me what has been my life for ten years since.'
'We have been making every effort to endeavour to secure to you a good
establishment,' rejoined her mother. 'That has been your life. And now you
have got it.'
'There is no slave in a market: there is no horse in a fair: so shown
and offered and examined and paraded, Mother, as I have been, for ten
shameful years,' cried Edith, with a burning brow, and the same bitter
emphasis on the one word. 'Is it not so? Have I been made the bye-word of
all kinds of men? Have fools, have profligates, have boys, have dotards,
dangled after me, and one by one rejected me, and fallen off, because you
were too plain with all your cunning: yes, and too true, with all those
false pretences: until we have almost come to be notorious? The licence of
look and touch,' she said, with flashing eyes, 'have I submitted to it, in
half the places of resort upon the map of England? Have I been hawked and
vended here and there, until the last grain of self-respect is dead within
me, and I loathe myself? Has been my late childhood? I had none before. Do
not tell me that I had, tonight of all nights in my life!'
'You might have been well married,' said her mother, 'twenty times at
least, Edith, if you had given encouragement enough.'
'No! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I well deserve to be,' she
answered, raising her head, and trembling in her energy of shame and stormy
pride, 'shall take me, as this man does, with no art of mine put forth to
lure him. He sees me at the auction, and he thinks it well to buy me. Let
him! When he came to view me - perhaps to bid - he required to see the roll
of my accomplishments. I gave it to him. When he would have me show one of
them, to justify his purchase to his men, I require of him to say which he
demands, and I exhibit it. I will do no more. He makes the purchase of his
own will, and with his own sense of its worth, and the power of his money;
and I hope it may never disappoint him. I have not vaunted and pressed the
bargain; neither have you, so far as I have been able to prevent you.
'You talk strangely to-night, Edith, to your own Mother.'
'It seems so to me; stranger to me than you,' said Edith. 'But my
education was completed long ago. I am too old now, and have fallen too low,
by degrees, to take a new course, and to stop yours, and to help myself. The
germ of all that purifies a woman's breast, and makes it true and good, has
never stirred in mine, and I have nothing else to sustain me when I despise
myself.' There had been a touching sadness in her voice, but it was gone,
when she went on to say, with a curled lip, 'So, as we are genteel and poor,
I am content that we should be made rich by these means; all I say is, I
have kept the only purpose I have had the strength to form - I had almost
said the power, with you at my side, Mother - and have not tempted this man
on.'
'This man! You speak,' said her mother, 'as if you hated him.'
'And you thought I loved him, did you not?' she answered, stopping on
her way across the room, and looking round. 'Shall I tell you,' she
continued, with her eyes fixed on her mother, 'who already knows us
thoroughly, and reads us right, and before whom I have even less of
self-respect or confidence than before my own inward self; being so much
degraded by his knowledge of me?'
'This is an attack, I suppose,' returned her mother coldly, 'on poor,
unfortunate what's-his-name - Mr Carker! Your want of self-respect and
confidence, my dear, in reference to that person (who is very agreeable, it
strikes me), is not likely to have much effect on your establishment. Why do
you look at me so hard? Are you ill?'
Edith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been stung, and while
she pressed her hands upon it, a terrible tremble crept over her whole
frame. It was quickly gone; and with her usual step, she passed out of the
room.
The maid who should have been a skeleton, then reappeared, and giving
one arm to her mistress, who appeared to have taken off her manner with her
charms, and to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown, collected the
ashes of Cleopatra, and carried them away in the other, ready for tomorrow's
revivification.
Alterations
'So the day has come at length, Susan,' said Florence to the excellent
Nipper, 'when we are going back to our quiet home!'
Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expression not easily
described, further relieving her feelings with a smart cough, answered,
'Very quiet indeed, Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.'
'When I was a child,' said Florence, thoughtfully, and after musing for
some moments, 'did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the trouble to
ride down here to speak to me, now three times - three times, I think,
Susan?'
'Three times, Miss,' returned the Nipper. 'Once when you was out a
walking with them Sket- '
Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper checked herself.
'With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young
gentleman. And two evenings since then.'
'When I was a child, and when company used to come to visit Papa, did
you ever see that gentleman at home, Susan?' asked Florence.
'Well, Miss,' returned her maid, after considering, 'I really couldn't
say I ever did. When your poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new in
the family, you see, and my element:' the Nipper bridled, as opining that
her merits had been always designedly extinguished by Mr Dombey: 'was the
floor below the attics.'
'To be sure,' said Florence, still thoughtfully; 'you are not likely to
have known who came to the house. I quite forgot.'
'Not, Miss, but what we talked about the family and visitors,' said
Susan, 'and but what I heard much said, although the nurse before Mrs
Richards make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint at little
Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing,' observed Susan,
with composed forbearance, 'to habits of intoxication, for which she was
required to leave, and did.'
Florence, who was seated at her chamber window, with her face resting
on her hand, sat looking out, and hardly seemed to hear what Susan said, she
was so lost in thought.
'At all events, Miss,' said Susan, 'I remember very well that this same
gentleman, Mr Carker, was almost, if not quite, as great a gentleman with
your Papa then, as he is now. It used to be said in the house then, Miss,
that he was at the head of all your Pa's affairs in the City, and managed
the whole, and that your Pa minded him more than anybody, which, begging
your pardon, Miss Floy, he might easy do, for he never minded anybody else.
I knew that, Pitcher as I might have been.'
Susan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the nurse before Mrs
Richards, emphasised 'Pitcher' strongly.
'And that Mr Carker has not fallen off, Miss,' she pursued, 'but has
stood his ground, and kept his credit with your Pa, I know from what is
always said among our people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the house;
and though he's the weakest weed in the world, Miss Floy, and no one can
have a moment's patience with the man, he knows what goes on in the City
tolerable well, and says that your Pa does nothing without Mr Carker, and
leaves all to Mr Carker, and acts according to Mr Carker, and has Mr Carker
always at his elbow, and I do believe that he believes (that washiest of
Perches!) that after your Pa, the Emperor of India is the child unborn to Mr
Carker.'
Not a word of this was lost on Florence, who, with an awakened interest
in Susan's speech, no longer gazed abstractedly on the prospect without, but
looked at her, and listened with attention.
'Yes, Susan,' she said, when that young lady had concluded. 'He is in
Papa's confidence, and is his friend, I am sure.'
Florence's mind ran high on this theme, and had done for some days. Mr
Carker, in the two visits with which he had followed up his first one, had
assumed a confidence between himself and her - a right on his part to be
mysterious and stealthy, in telling her that the ship was still unheard of -
a kind of mildly restrained power and authority over her - that made her
wonder, and caused her great uneasiness. She had no means of repelling it,
or of freeing herself from the web he was gradually winding about her; for
that would have required some art and knowledge of the world, opposed to
such address as his; and Florence had none. True, he had said no more to her
than that there was no news of the ship, and that he feared the worst; but
how he came to know that she was interested in the ship, and why he had the
right to signify his knowledge to her, so insidiously and darkly, troubled
Florence very much.
This conduct on the part of Mr Carker, and her habit of often
considering it with wonder and uneasiness, began to invest him with an
uncomfortable fascination in Florence's thoughts. A more distinct
remembrance of his features, voice, and manner: which she sometimes courted,
as a means of reducing him to the level of a real personage, capable of
exerting no greater charm over her than another: did not remove the vague
impression. And yet he never frowned, or looked upon her with an air of
dislike or animosity, but was always smiling and serene.
Again, Florence, in pursuit of her strong purpose with reference to her
father, and her steady resolution to believe that she was herself
unwittingly to blame for their so cold and distant relations, would recall
to mind that this gentleman was his confidential friend, and would think,
with an anxious heart, could her struggling tendency to dislike and fear him
be a part of that misfortune in her, which had turned her father's love
adrift, and left her so alone? She dreaded that it might be; sometimes
believed it was: then she resolved that she would try to conquer this wrong
feeling; persuaded herself that she was honoured and encouraged by the
notice of her father's friend; and hoped that patient observation of him and
trust in him would lead her bleeding feet along that stony road which ended
in her father's heart.
Thus, with no one to advise her - for she could advise with no one
without seeming to complain against him - gentle Florence tossed on an
uneasy sea of doubt and hope; and Mr Carker, like a scaly monster of the
deep, swam down below, and kept his shining eye upon her. Florence had a new
reason in all this for wishing to be at home again. Her lonely life was
better suited to her course of timid hope and doubt; and she feared
sometimes, that in her absence she might miss some hopeful chance of
testifying her affection for her father. Heaven knows, she might have set
her mind at rest, poor child! on this last point; but her slighted love was
fluttering within her, and, even in her sleep, it flew away in dreams, and
nestled, like a wandering bird come home, upon her father's neck.
Of Walter she thought often. Ah! how often, when the night was gloomy,
and the wind was blowing round the house! But hope was strong in her breast.
It is so difficult for the young and ardent, even with such experience as
hers, to imagine youth and ardour quenched like a weak flame, and the bright
day of life merging into night, at noon, that hope was strong yet. Her tears
fell frequently for Walter's sufferings; but rarely for his supposed death,
and never long.
She had written to the old Instrument-maker, but had received no answer
to her note: which indeed required none. Thus matters stood with Florence on
the morning when she was going home, gladly, to her old secluded life.
Doctor and Mrs Blimber, accompanied (much against his will) by their
valued charge, Master Barnet, were already gone back to Brighton, where that
young gentleman and his fellow-pilgrims to Parnassus were then, no doubt, in
the continual resumption of their studies. The holiday time was past and
over; most of the juvenile guests at the villa had taken their departure;
and Florence's long visit was come to an end.
There was one guest, however, albeit not resident within the house, who
had been very constant in his attentions to the family, and who still
remained devoted to them. This was Mr Toots, who after renewing, some weeks
ago, the acquaintance he had had the happiness of forming with Skettles
Junior, on the night when he burst the Blimberian bonds and soared into
freedom with his ring on, called regularly every other day, and left a
perfect pack of cards at the hall-door; so many indeed, that the ceremony
was quite a deal on the part of Mr Toots, and a hand at whist on the part of
the servant.
Mr Toots, likewise, with the bold and happy idea of preventing the
family from forgetting him (but there is reason to suppose that this
expedient originated in the teeming brain of the Chicken), had established a
six-oared cutter, manned by aquatic friends of the Chicken's and steered by
that illustrious character in person, who wore a bright red fireman's coat
for the purpose, and concealed the perpetual black eye with which he was
afflicted, beneath a green shade. Previous to the institution of this
equipage, Mr Toots sounded the Chicken on a hypothetical case, as, supposing
the Chicken to be enamoured of a young lady named Mary, and to have
conceived the intention of starting a boat of his own, what would he call
that boat? The Chicken replied, with divers strong asseverations, that he
would either christen it Poll or The Chicken's Delight. Improving on this
idea, Mr Toots, after deep study and the exercise of much invention,
resolved to call his boat The Toots's Joy, as a delicate compliment to
Florence, of which no man knowing the parties, could possibly miss the
appreciation.
Stretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant bark, with his shoes in
the air, Mr Toots, in the exercise of his project, had come up the river,
day after day, and week after week, and had flitted to and fro, near Sir
Barnet's garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and across the river
at sharp angles, for his better exhibition to any lookers-out from Sir
Barnet's windows, and had had such evolutions performed by the Toots's Joy
as had filled all the neighbouring part of the water-side with astonishment.
But whenever he saw anyone in Sir Barnet's garden on the brink of the river,
Mr Toots always feigned to be passing there, by a combination of
coincidences of the most singular and unlikely description.
'How are you, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say, waving his hand from the
lawn, while the artful Chicken steered close in shore.
'How de do, Sir Barnet?' Mr Toots would answer, What a surprising thing
that I should see you here!'
Mr Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, instead of that
being Sir Barnet's house, it were some deserted edifice on the banks of the
Nile, or Ganges.
'I never was so surprised!' Mr Toots would exclaim. - 'Is Miss Dombey
there?'
Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps.
'Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey,' Toots would cry. 'I called
to ask this morning.'
'Thank you very much!' the pleasant voice of Florence would reply.
'Won't you come ashore, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say then. 'Come!
you're in no hurry. Come and see us.'
'Oh, it's of no consequence, thank you!' Mr Toots would blushingly
rejoin. 'I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, that's all. Good-bye!'
And poor Mr Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation, but hadn't the
courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with an aching heart, and away went
the Joy, cleaving the water like an arrow.
The Joy was lying in a state of extraordinary splendour, at the garden
steps, on the morning of Florence's departure. When she went downstairs to
take leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr Toots awaiting her in
the drawing-room.
'Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey?' said the stricken Toots, always
dreadfully disconcerted when the desire of his heart was gained, and he was
speaking to her; 'thank you, I'm very well indeed, I hope you're the same,
so was Diogenes yesterday.'
'You are very kind,' said Florence.
'Thank you, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'I thought
perhaps you wouldn't mind, in this fine weather, coming home by water, Miss
Dombey. There's plenty of room in the boat for your maid.'
'I am very much obliged to you,' said Florence, hesitating. 'I really
am - but I would rather not.'
'Oh, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'Good morning.'
'Won't you wait and see Lady Skettles?' asked Florence, kindly.
'Oh no, thank you,' returned Mr Toots, 'it's of no consequence at all.'
So shy was Mr Toots on such occasions, and so flurried! But Lady
Skettles entering at the moment, Mr Toots was suddenly seized with a passion
for asking her how she did, and hoping she was very well; nor could Mr Toots
by any possibility leave off shaking hands with her, until Sir Barnet
appeared: to whom he immediately clung with the tenacity of desperation.
'We are losing, today, Toots,' said Sir Barnet, turning towards
Florence, 'the light of our house, I assure you'
'Oh, it's of no conseq - I mean yes, to be sure,' faltered the
embarrassed Mr Toots. 'Good morning!'
Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, Mr Toots, instead
of going away, stood leering about him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve him,
bade adieu, with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm to Sir
Barnet.
'May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey,' said her host, as he conducted
her to the carriage, 'to present my best compliments to your dear Papa?'
It was distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt
as if she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe that a
kindness rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not
explain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him; and again she thought
that the dull home, free from such embarrassments, and such reminders of her
sorrow, was her natural and best retreat.
Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the
villa, came running from within, and from the garden, to say good-bye. They
were all attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her. Even the
household were sorry for her going, and the servants came nodding and
curtseying round the carriage door. As Florence looked round on the kind
faces, and saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his lady, and of Mr Toots,
who was chuckling and staring at her from a distance, she was reminded of
the night when Paul and she had come from Doctor Blimber's: and when the
carriage drove away, her face was wet with tears.
Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too; for all the softer
memories connected with the dull old house to which she was returning made
it dear to her, as they rose up. How long it seemed since she had wandered
through the silent rooms: since she had last crept, softly and afraid, into
those her father occupied: since she had felt the solemn but yet soothing
influence of the beloved dead in every action of her daily life! This new
farewell reminded her, besides, of her parting with poor Walter: of his
looks and words that night: and of the gracious blending she had noticed in
him, of tenderness for those he left behind, with courage and high spirit.
His little history was associated with the old house too, and gave it a new
claim and hold upon her heart. Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home
of so many years, as they were on their way towards it. Gloomy as it was,
and rigid justice as she rendered to its gloom, she forgave it a great deal.
'I shall be glad to see it again, I don't deny, Miss,' said the Nipper.
'There ain't much in it to boast of, but I wouldn't have it burnt or pulled
down, neither!'
'You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't you, Susan?' said
Florence, smiling.
'Well, Miss,' returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards the
house, as they approached it nearer, 'I won't deny but what I shall, though
I shall hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely.'
Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace within it than
elsewhere. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there, among
the tall dark walls, than to carry it abroad into the light, and try to hide
it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the study of her
loving heart, alone, and find no new discouragements in loving hearts about
her. It was easier to hope, and pray, and love on, all uncared for, yet with
constancy and patience, in the tranquil sanctuary of such remembrances:
although it mouldered, rusted, and decayed about her: than in a new scene,
let its gaiety be what it would. She welcomed back her old enchanted dream
of life, and longed for the old dark door to close upon her, once again.
Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and sombre street.
Florence was not on that side of the carriage which was nearest to her home,
and as the distance lessened between them and it, she looked out of her
window for the children over the way.
She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to turn
quickly round.
'Why, Gracious me!' cried Susan, breathless, 'where's our house!'
'Our house!' said Florence.
Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew
it in again as the carriage stopped, and stared at her mistress in
amazement.
There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house, from
the basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar,
and piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of the broad street
at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls; labourers were climbing
up and down; men were at work upon the steps of the scaffolding; painters
and decorators were busy inside; great rolls of ornamental paper were being
delivered from a cart at the door; an upholsterer's waggon also stopped the
way; no furniture was to be seen through the gaping and broken windows in
any of the rooms; nothing but workmen, and the implements of their several
trades, swarming from the kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike:
bricklayers, painters, carpenters, masons: hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw,
and trowel: all at work together, in full chorus!
Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it were, or could
be the right house, until she recognised Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face,
standing at the door to receive her.
'There is nothing the matter?' inquired Florence.
'Oh no, Miss.'
'There are great alterations going on.'
'Yes, Miss, great alterations,' said Towlinson.
Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried upstairs.
The garish light was in the long-darkened drawing-room and there were steps
and platforms, and men In paper caps, in the high places. Her mother's
picture was gone with the rest of the moveables, and on the mark where it
had been, was scrawled in chalk, 'this room in panel. Green and gold.' The
staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the outside of the house,
and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was reclining in various
attitudes, on the skylight. Her own room was not yet touched within, but
there were beams and boards raised against it without, baulking the
daylight. She went up swiftly to that other bedroom, where the little bed
was; and a dark giant of a man with a pipe in his mouth, and his head tied
up in a pocket-handkerchief, was staring in at the window.
It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest of Florence, found
her, and said, would she go downstairs to her Papa, who wished to speak to
her.
'At home! and wishing to speak to me!' cried Florence, trembling.
Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Florence herself,
repeated her errand; and Florence, pale and agitated, hurried down again,
without a moment's hesitation. She thought upon the way down, would she dare
to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved her, and she thought she
would.
Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his
presence. One instant, and it would have beat against his breast.
But he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence
stopped. Striving so hard with her emotion, that if her brute friend Di had
not burst in and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home - at
which one of the ladies gave a little scream, and that diverted her
attention from herself - she would have swooned upon the floor.
'Florence,' said her father, putting out his hand: so stiffly that it
held her off: 'how do you do?'
Florence took the hand between her own, and putting it timidly to her
lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting it, with
quite as much endearment as it had touched her.
'What dog is that?' said Mr Dombey, displeased.
'It is a dog, Papa - from Brighton.'
'Well!' said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his face, for he
understood her.
'He is very good-tempered,' said Florence, addressing herself with her
natural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. 'He is only glad to
see me. Pray forgive him.'
She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the lady who had
screamed, and who was seated, was old; and that the other lady, who stood
near her Papa, was very beautiful, and of an elegant figure.
'Mrs Skewton,' said her father, turning to the first, and holding out
his hand, 'this is my daughter Florence.'
'Charming, I am sure,' observed the lady, putting up her glass. 'So
natural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please.'
Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady, by whom her
father stood waiting.
'Edith,' said Mr Dombey, 'this is my daughter Florence. Florence, this
lady will soon be your Mama.'
Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict of
emotions, among which the tears that name awakened, struggled for a moment
with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of fear. Then
she cried out, 'Oh, Papa, may you be happy! may you be very, very happy all
your life!' and then fell weeping on the lady's bosom.
There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who at first had seemed
to hesitate whether or no she should advance to Florence, held her to her
breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her, close about her
waist, as if to reassure her and comfort her. Not one word passed the lady's
lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed her on the cheek,
but she said no word.
'Shall we go on through the rooms,' said Mr Dombey, 'and see how our
workmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam.'
He said this in offering his arm to Mrs Skewton, who had been looking
at Florence through her glass, as though picturing to herself what she might
be made, by the infusion - from her own copious storehouse, no doubt - of a
little more Heart and Nature. Florence was still sobbing on the lady's
breast, and holding to her, when Mr Dombey was heard to say from the
Conservatory:
'Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she?'
'Edith, my dear!' cried Mrs Skewton, 'where are you? Looking for Mr
Dombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love.'
The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and pressing her lips
once more upon her face, withdrew hurriedly, and joined them. Florence
remained standing In the same place: happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears, she
knew not how, or how long, but all at once: when her new Mama came back, and
took her in her arms again.
'Florence,' said the lady, hurriedly, and looking into her face with
great earnestness. 'You will not begin by hating me?'
'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!
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 Chic '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 should I do
anything else? There is no reason; it would be absurd. But I wish to express
myself clearly, Lucretia; and therefore to go back to that remark, I must
beg to say that it was not intended to relate to Florence, in any way.'
'Indeed!' returned Miss Tox.
'No,' said Mrs Chick shortly and decisively.
'Pardon me, my dear,' rejoined her meek friend; 'but I cannot have
understood it. I fear I am dull.'
Mrs Chick looked round the room and over the way; at the plants, at the
bird, at the watering-pot, at almost everything within view, except Miss
Tox; and finally dropping her glance upon Miss Tox, for a moment, on its way
to the ground, said, looking meanwhile with elevated eyebrows at the carpet:
'When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the name, I speak of my
brother Paul's second wife. I believe I have already said, in effect, if not
in the very words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a second
wife.'
Miss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to her plants; clipping
among the stems and leaves, with as little favour as a barber working at so
many pauper heads of hair.
'Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction conferred upon
her,' said Mrs Chick, in a lofty tone, 'is quite another question. I hope
she may be. We are bound to think well of one another in this world, and I
hope she may be. I have not been advised with myself If I had been advised
with, I have no doubt my advice would have been cavalierly received, and
therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it as it is.'
Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among the plants. Mrs
Chick, with energetic shakings of her own head from time to time, continued
to hold forth, as if in defiance of somebody. 'If my brother Paul had
consulted with me, which he sometimes does - or rather, sometimes used to
do; for he will naturally do that no more now, and this is a circumstance
which I regard as a relief from responsibility,' said Mrs Chick,
hysterically, 'for I thank Heaven I am not jealous - ' here Mrs Chick again
shed tears: 'if my brother Paul had come to me, and had said, "Louisa, what
kind of qualities would you advise me to look out for, in a wife?" I should
certainly have answered, "Paul, you must have family, you must have beauty,
you must have dignity, you must have connexion." Those are the words I
should have used. You might have led me to the block immediately
afterwards,' said Mrs Chick, as if that consequence were highly probable,
'but I should have used them. I should have said, "Paul! You to marry a
second time without family! You to marry without beauty! You to marry
without dignity! You to marry without connexion! There is nobody in the
world, not mad, who could dream of daring to entertain such a preposterous
idea!"'
Miss Tox stopped clipping; and with her head among the plants, listened
attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox thought there was hope in this exordium, and
the warmth of Mrs Chick.
I should have adopted this course of argument,' pursued the discreet
lady, 'because I trust I am not a fool. I make no claim to be considered a
person of superior intellect - though I believe some people have been
extraordinary enough to consider me so; one so little humoured as I am,
would very soon be disabused of any such notion; but I trust I am not a
downright fool. And to tell ME,' said Mrs Chick with ineffable disdain,
'that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate the possibility of
uniting himself to anybody - I don't care who' - she was more sharp and
emphatic in that short clause than in any other part of her discourse - 'not
possessing these requisites, would be to insult what understanding I have
got, as much as if I was to be told that I was born and bred an elephant,
which I may be told next,' said Mrs Chick, with resignation. 'It wouldn't
surprise me at all. I expect it.'
In the moment's silence that ensued, Miss Tox's scissors gave a feeble
clip or two; but Miss Tox's face was still invisible, and Miss Tox's morning
gown was agitated. Mrs Chick looked sideways at her, through the intervening
plants, and went on to say, in a tone of bland conviction, and as one
dwelling on a point of fact that hardly required to be stated: