CHAPTER II. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families
CHAPTER III. In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the Head of the Home-Department
CHAPTER IV. In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of these Adventures
CHAPTER V. Paul’s Progress and Christening
CHAPTER VI. Paul’s Second Deprivation
CHAPTER VII. A Bird’s-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox’s Dwelling-place: also of the State of Miss Tox’s Affections
CHAPTER VIII. Paul’s Further Progress, Growth and Character
CHAPTER IX. In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble
CHAPTER X. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman’s Disaster
CHAPTER XI. Paul’s Introduction to a New Scene
CHAPTER XII. Paul’s Education
CHAPTER XIII. Shipping Intelligence and Office Business
CHAPTER XIV. Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for the Holidays
CHAPTER XV. Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Walter Gay
CHAPTER XVI. What the Waves were always saying
CHAPTER XVII. Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People
CHAPTER XVIII. Father and Daughter
CHAPTER XIX. Walter goes away
CHAPTER XX. Mr Dombey goes upon a Journey
CHAPTER XXI. New Faces
CHAPTER XXII. A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager
CHAPTER XXIII. Florence solitary, and the Midshipman mysterious
CHAPTER XXIV. The Study of a Loving Heart
CHAPTER XXV. Strange News of Uncle Sol
CHAPTER XXVI. Shadows of the Past and Future
CHAPTER XXVII. Deeper Shadows
CHAPTER XXVIII. Alterations
CHAPTER XXIX. The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick
CHAPTER XXX. The interval before the Marriage
CHAPTER XXXI. The Wedding
CHAPTER XXXII. The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces
CHAPTER XXXIII. Contrasts
CHAPTER XXXIV. Another Mother and Daughter
CHAPTER XXXV. The Happy Pair
CHAPTER XXXVI. Housewarming
CHAPTER XXXVII. More Warnings than One
CHAPTER XXXVIII. Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance
CHAPTER XXXIX. Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner
CHAPTER XL. Domestic Relations
CHAPTER XLI. New Voices in the Waves
CHAPTER XLII. Confidential and Accidental
CHAPTER XLIII. The Watches of the Night
CHAPTER XLIV. A Separation
CHAPTER XLV. The Trusty Agent
CHAPTER XLVI. Recognizant and Reflective
CHAPTER XLVII. The Thunderbolt
CHAPTER XLVIII. The Flight of Florence
CHAPTER XLIX. The Midshipman makes a Discovery
CHAPTER L. Mr Toots’s Complaint
CHAPTER LI. Mr Dombey and the World
CHAPTER LII. Secret Intelligence
CHAPTER LIII. More Intelligence
CHAPTER LIV. The Fugitives
CHAPTER LV. Rob the Grinder loses his Place
CHAPTER LVI. Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted
CHAPTER LVII. Another Wedding
CHAPTER LVIII. After a Lapse
CHAPTER LIX. Retribution
CHAPTER LX. Chiefly Matrimonial
CHAPTER LXI. Relenting
CHAPTER LXII. Final
PREFACE OF 1848
PREFACE OF 1867
CHAPTER I.
Dombey and Son
Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair by
the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead,
carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and
close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin,
and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new.
Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about
eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though
a handsome well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be
prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course)
an undeniably fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general
effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had
set some marks, as on a tree that was to come down in good
time—remorseless twins they are for striding through their human
forests, notching as they go—while the countenance of Son was crossed
with a thousand little creases, which the same deceitful Time would
take delight in smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of
his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for his deeper operations.
Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the
heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat,
whereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the
distant fire. Son, with his little fists curled up and clenched,
seemed, in his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come
upon him so unexpectedly.
“The House will once again, Mrs Dombey,” said Mr Dombey, “be not only
in name but in fact Dombey and Son;” and he added, in a tone of
luxurious satisfaction, with his eyes half-closed as if he were reading
the name in a device of flowers, and inhaling their fragrance at the
same time; “Dom-bey and Son!”
The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of
endearment to Mrs Dombey’s name (though not without some hesitation, as
being a man but little used to that form of address): and said, “Mrs
Dombey, my—my dear.”
A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady’s face as
she raised her eyes towards him.
“He will be christened Paul, my—Mrs Dombey—of course.”
She feebly echoed, “Of course,” or rather expressed it by the motion of
her lips, and closed her eyes again.
“His father’s name, Mrs Dombey, and his grandfather’s! I wish his
grandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the
necessity of writing Junior,” said Mr Dombey, making a fictitious
autograph on his knee; “but it is merely of a private and personal
complexion. It doesn’t enter into the correspondence of the House. Its
signature remains the same.” And again he said “Dombey and Son,” in
exactly the same tone as before.
Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr Dombey’s life. The earth
was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made
to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships;
rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against
their enterprises; stars and planets circled in their orbits, to
preserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre. Common
abbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole reference to
them. A. D. had no concern with Anno Domini, but stood for anno
Dombei—and Son.
He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and
death, from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the
sole representative of the Firm. Of those years he had been married,
ten—married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give him; whose
happiness was in the past, and who was content to bind her broken
spirit to the dutiful and meek endurance of the present. Such idle talk
was little likely to reach the ears of Mr Dombey, whom it nearly
concerned; and probably no one in the world would have received it with
such utter incredulity as he, if it had reached him. Dombey and Son had
often dealt in hides, but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to
boys and girls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr Dombey would have
reasoned: That a matrimonial alliance with himself _must_, in the
nature of things, be gratifying and honourable to any woman of common
sense. That the hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a House,
could not fail to awaken a glorious and stirring ambition in the breast
of the least ambitious of her sex. That Mrs Dombey had entered on that
social contract of matrimony: almost necessarily part of a genteel and
wealthy station, even without reference to the perpetuation of family
Firms: with her eyes fully open to these advantages. That Mrs Dombey
had had daily practical knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs
Dombey had always sat at the head of his table, and done the honours of
his house in a remarkably lady-like and becoming manner. That Mrs
Dombey must have been happy. That she couldn’t help it.
Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he would have allowed.
With only one; but that one certainly involving much. With the drawback
of hope deferred. That hope deferred, which, (as the Scripture very
correctly tells us, Mr Dombey would have added in a patronising way;
for his highest distinct idea even of Scripture, if examined, would
have been found to be; that as forming part of a general whole, of
which Dombey and Son formed another part, it was therefore to be
commended and upheld) maketh the heart sick. They had been married ten
years, and until this present day on which Mr Dombey sat jingling and
jingling his heavy gold watch-chain in the great arm-chair by the side
of the bed, had had no issue.
—To speak of; none worth mentioning. There had been a girl some six
years before, and the child, who had stolen into the chamber
unobserved, was now crouching timidly, in a corner whence she could see
her mother’s face. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son! In the
capital of the House’s name and dignity, such a child was merely a
piece of base coin that couldn’t be invested—a bad Boy—nothing more.
Mr Dombey’s cup of satisfaction was so full at this moment, however,
that he felt he could afford a drop or two of its contents, even to
sprinkle on the dust in the by-path of his little daughter.
So he said, “Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if
you like, I daresay. Don’t touch him!”
The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat,
which, with a pair of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch,
embodied her idea of a father; but her eyes returned to her mother’s
face immediately, and she neither moved nor answered.
“Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every thing
else,” said Mr Dombey to himself He seemed so confirmed in a previous
opinion by the discovery, as to be quite glad of it.”
Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and the
child had run towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, the better to hide
her face in her embrace, had clung about her with a desperate affection
very much at variance with her years.
“Oh Lord bless me!” said Mr Dombey, rising testily. “A very ill-advised
and feverish proceeding this, I am sure. Please to ring there for Miss
Florence’s nurse. Really the person should be more care-”
“Wait! I—had better ask Doctor Peps if he’ll have the goodness to step
upstairs again perhaps. I’ll go down. I’ll go down. I needn’t beg you,”
he added, pausing for a moment at the settee before the fire, “to take
particular care of this young gentleman, Mrs ——”
“Blockitt, Sir?” suggested the nurse, a simpering piece of faded
gentility, who did not presume to state her name as a fact, but merely
offered it as a mild suggestion.
“Of this young gentleman, Mrs Blockitt.”
“No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born—”
“Ay, ay, ay,” said Mr Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead, and
slightly bending his brows at the same time. “Miss Florence was all
very well, but this is another matter. This young gentleman has to
accomplish a destiny. A destiny, little fellow!” As he thus
apostrophised the infant he raised one of his hands to his lips, and
kissed it; then, seeming to fear that the action involved some
compromise of his dignity, went, awkwardly enough, away.
Doctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense
reputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was walking
up and down the drawing-room with his hands behind him, to the
unspeakable admiration of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed
the case for the last six weeks, among all his patients, friends, and
acquaintances, as one to which he was in hourly expectation day and
night of being summoned, in conjunction with Doctor Parker Pep.
“Well, Sir,” said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous voice,
muffled for the occasion, like the knocker; “do you find that your dear
lady is at all roused by your visit?”
“Stimulated as it were?” said the family practitioner faintly: bowing
at the same time to the Doctor, as much as to say, “Excuse my putting
in a word, but this is a valuable connexion.”
Mr Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought so
little of the patient, that he was not in a condition to answer it. He
said that it would be a satisfaction to him, if Doctor Parker Peps
would walk upstairs again.
“Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,” said Doctor Parker Peps,
“that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess—I beg your
pardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady. That
there is a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of
elasticity, which we would rather—not—”
“See,” interposed the family practitioner with another inclination of
the head.
“Quite so,” said Doctor Parker Peps, “which we would rather not see. It
would appear that the system of Lady Cankaby—excuse me: I should say of
Mrs Dombey: I confuse the names of cases—”
“So very numerous,” murmured the family practitioner—“can’t be expected
I’m sure—quite wonderful if otherwise—Doctor Parker Peps’s West-End
practice—”
“Thank you,” said the Doctor, “quite so. It would appear, I was
observing, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from
which it can only hope to rally by a great and strong—”
“And vigorous,” murmured the family practitioner.
“Quite so,” assented the Doctor—“and vigorous effort. Mr Pilkins here,
who from his position of medical adviser in this family—no one better
qualified to fill that position, I am sure.”
“Oh!” murmured the family practitioner. “‘Praise from Sir Hubert
Stanley!’”
“You are good enough,” returned Doctor Parker Peps, “to say so. Mr
Pilkins who, from his position, is best acquainted with the patient’s
constitution in its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us
in forming our opinions in these occasions), is of opinion, with me,
that Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this
instance; and that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey—I
_beg_ your pardon; Mrs Dombey—should not be—”
“Able,” said the family practitioner.
“To make,” said Doctor Parker Peps.
“That effort,” said the family practitioner.
“Successfully,” said they both together.
“Then,” added Doctor Parker Peps, alone and very gravely, “a crisis
might arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.”
With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the ground. Then, on
the motion—made in dumb show—of Doctor Parker Peps, they went upstairs;
the family practitioner opening the room door for that distinguished
professional, and following him out, with most obsequious politeness.
To record of Mr Dombey that he was not in his way affected by this
intelligence, would be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of whom
it could properly be said that he was ever startled, or shocked; but he
certainly had a sense within him, that if his wife should sicken and
decay, he would be very sorry, and that he would find a something gone
from among his plate and furniture, and other household possessions,
which was well worth the having, and could not be lost without sincere
regret. Though it would be a cool, business-like, gentlemanly,
self-possessed regret, no doubt.
His meditations on the subject were soon interrupted, first by the
rustling of garments on the staircase, and then by the sudden whisking
into the room of a lady rather past the middle age than otherwise but
dressed in a very juvenile manner, particularly as to the tightness of
her bodice, who, running up to him with a kind of screw in her face and
carriage, expressive of suppressed emotion, flung her arms around his
neck, and said, in a choking voice,
“My dear Paul! He’s quite a Dombey!”
“Well, well!” returned her brother—for Mr Dombey was her brother—“I
think he is like the family. Don’t agitate yourself, Louisa.”
“It’s very foolish of me,” said Louisa, sitting down, and taking out
her pocket-handkerchief, “but he’s—he’s such a perfect Dombey!”
Mr Dombey coughed.
“It’s so extraordinary,” said Louisa; smiling through her tears, which
indeed were not overpowering, “as to be perfectly ridiculous. So
completely our family. _I_ never saw anything like it in my life!”
“But what is this about Fanny, herself?” said Mr Dombey. “How is
Fanny?”
“My dear Paul,” returned Louisa, “it’s nothing whatever. Take my word,
it’s nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like
what I underwent myself, either with George or Frederick. An effort is
necessary. That’s all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey!—But I daresay
she’ll make it; I have no doubt she’ll make it. Knowing it to be
required of her, as a duty, of course she’ll make it. My dear Paul,
it’s very weak and silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shaky from
head to foot; but I am so very queer that I must ask you for a glass of
wine and a morsel of that cake.”
Mr Dombey promptly supplied her with these refreshments from a tray on
the table.
“I shall not drink my love to you, Paul,” said Louisa: “I shall drink
to the little Dombey. Good gracious me!—it’s the most astonishing thing
I ever knew in all my days, he’s such a perfect Dombey.”
Quenching this expression of opinion in a short hysterical laugh which
terminated in tears, Louisa cast up her eyes, and emptied her glass.
“I know it’s very weak and silly of me,” she repeated, “to be so
trembly and shaky from head to foot, and to allow my feelings so
completely to get the better of me, but I cannot help it. I thought I
should have fallen out of the staircase window as I came down from
seeing dear Fanny, and that tiddy ickle sing.” These last words
originated in a sudden vivid reminiscence of the baby.
They were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door.
“Mrs Chick,” said a very bland female voice outside, “how are you now,
my dear friend?”
“My dear Paul,” said Louisa in a low voice, as she rose from her seat,
“it’s Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got here
without her! Miss Tox, my brother Mr Dombey. Paul, my dear, my very
particular friend Miss Tox.”
The lady thus specially presented, was a long lean figure, wearing such
a faded air that she seemed not to have been made in what linen-drapers
call “fast colours” originally, and to have, by little and little,
washed out. But for this she might have been described as the very pink
of general propitiation and politeness. From a long habit of listening
admiringly to everything that was said in her presence, and looking at
the speakers as if she were mentally engaged in taking off impressions
of their images upon her soul, never to part with the same but with
life, her head had quite settled on one side. Her hands had contracted
a spasmodic habit of raising themselves of their own accord as in
involuntary admiration. Her eyes were liable to a similar affection.
She had the softest voice that ever was heard; and her nose,
stupendously aquiline, had a little knob in the very centre or
key-stone of the bridge, whence it tended downwards towards her face,
as in an invincible determination never to turn up at anything.
Miss Tox’s dress, though perfectly genteel and good, had a certain
character of angularity and scantiness. She was accustomed to wear odd
weedy little flowers in her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were
sometimes perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curious, of
all her collars, frills, tuckers, wristbands, and other gossamer
articles—indeed of everything she wore which had two ends to it
intended to unite—that the two ends were never on good terms, and
wouldn’t quite meet without a struggle. She had furry articles for
winter wear, as tippets, boas, and muffs, which stood up on end in
rampant manner, and were not at all sleek. She was much given to the
carrying about of small bags with snaps to them, that went off like
little pistols when they were shut up; and when full-dressed, she wore
round her neck the barrenest of lockets, representing a fishy old eye,
with no approach to speculation in it. These and other appearances of a
similar nature, had served to propagate the opinion, that Miss Tox was
a lady of what is called a limited independence, which she turned to
the best account. Possibly her mincing gait encouraged the belief, and
suggested that her clipping a step of ordinary compass into two or
three, originated in her habit of making the most of everything.
“I am sure,” said Miss Tox, with a prodigious curtsey, “that to have
the honour of being presented to Mr Dombey is a distinction which I
have long sought, but very little expected at the present moment. My
dear Mrs Chick—may I say Louisa!”
Mrs Chick took Miss Tox’s hand in hers, rested the foot of her
wine-glass upon it, repressed a tear, and said in a low voice, “God
bless you!”
“My dear Louisa then,” said Miss Tox, “my sweet friend, how are you
now?”
“Better,” Mrs Chick returned. “Take some wine. You have been almost as
anxious as I have been, and must want it, I am sure.”
Mr Dombey of course officiated, and also refilled his sister’s glass,
which she (looking another way, and unconscious of his intention) held
straight and steady the while, and then regarded with great
astonishment, saying, “My dear Paul, what have you been doing!”
“Miss Tox, Paul,” pursued Mrs Chick, still retaining her hand, “knowing
how much I have been interested in the anticipation of the event of
today, and how trembly and shaky I have been from head to foot in
expectation of it, has been working at a little gift for Fanny, which I
promised to present. Miss Tox is ingenuity itself.”
“My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox. “Don’t say so.”
“It is only a pincushion for the toilette table, Paul,” resumed his
sister; “one of those trifles which are insignificant to your sex in
general, as it’s very natural they should be—we have no business to
expect they should be otherwise—but to which we attach some interest.”
“Miss Tox is very good,” said Mr Dombey.
“And I do say, and will say, and must say,” pursued his sister,
pressing the foot of the wine-glass on Miss Tox’s hand, at each of the
three clauses, “that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment
to the occasion. I call ‘Welcome little Dombey’ Poetry, myself!”
“Is that the device?” inquired her brother.
“That is the device,” returned Louisa.
“But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox in a
tone of low and earnest entreaty, “that nothing but the—I have some
difficulty in expressing myself—the dubiousness of the result would
have induced me to take so great a liberty: ‘Welcome, Master Dombey,’
would have been much more congenial to my feelings, as I am sure you
know. But the uncertainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope,
excuse what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable familiarity.” Miss
Tox made a graceful bend as she spoke, in favour of Mr Dombey, which
that gentleman graciously acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of
Dombey and Son, conveyed in the foregoing conversation, was so
palatable to him, that his sister, Mrs Chick—though he affected to
consider her a weak good-natured person—had perhaps more influence over
him than anybody else.
“My dear Paul,” that lady broke out afresh, after silently
contemplating his features for a few moments, “I don’t know whether to
laugh or cry when I look at you, I declare, you do so remind me of that
dear baby upstairs.”
“Well!” said Mrs Chick, with a sweet smile, “after this, I forgive
Fanny everything!”
It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs Chick felt that it
did her good. Not that she had anything particular to forgive in her
sister-in-law, nor indeed anything at all, except her having married
her brother—in itself a species of audacity—and her having, in the
course of events, given birth to a girl instead of a boy: which, as Mrs
Chick had frequently observed, was not quite what she had expected of
her, and was not a pleasant return for all the attention and
distinction she had met with.
Mr Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment, the
two ladies were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became
spasmodic.
“I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so beforehand, my
dear,” said Louisa. Miss Tox’s hands and eyes expressed how much. “And
as to his property, my dear!”
“Ah!” said Miss Tox, with deep feeling.
“Im-mense!”
“But his deportment, my dear Louisa!” said Miss Tox. “His presence! His
dignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of anyone has been half so
replete with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so
uncompromising: so very wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary
Duke of York, my love, and nothing short of it!” said Miss Tox. “That’s
what _I_ should designate him.”
“Why, my dear Paul!” exclaimed his sister, as he returned, “you look
quite pale! There’s nothing the matter?”
“I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny—”
“Now, my dear Paul,” returned his sister rising, “don’t believe it. Do
not allow yourself to receive a turn unnecessarily. Remember of what
importance you are to society, and do not allow yourself to be worried
by what is so very inconsiderately told you by people who ought to know
better. Really I’m surprised at them.”
“I hope I know, Louisa,” said Mr Dombey, stiffly, “how to bear myself
before the world.”
“Nobody better, my dear Paul. Nobody half so well. They would be
ignorant and base indeed who doubted it.”
“Ignorant and base indeed!” echoed Miss Tox softly.
“But,” pursued Louisa, “if you have any reliance on my experience,
Paul, you may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an effort
on Fanny’s part. And that effort,” she continued, taking off her
bonnet, and adjusting her cap and gloves, in a business-like manner,
“she must be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now,
my dear Paul, come upstairs with me.”
Mr Dombey, who, besides being generally influenced by his sister for
the reason already mentioned, had really faith in her as an experienced
and bustling matron, acquiesced; and followed her, at once, to the sick
chamber.
The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasping her little
daughter to her breast. The child clung close about her, with the same
intensity as before, and never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek
from her mother’s face, or looked on those who stood around, or spoke,
or moved, or shed a tear.
“Restless without the little girl,” the Doctor whispered Mr Dombey. “We
found it best to have her in again.”
“Can nothing be done?” asked Mr Dombey.
The Doctor shook his head. “We can do no more.”
The windows stood open, and the twilight was gathering without.
The scent of the restoratives that had been tried was pungent in the
room, but had no fragrance in the dull and languid air the lady
breathed.
There was such a solemn stillness round the bed; and the two medical
attendants seemed to look on the impassive form with so much compassion
and so little hope, that Mrs Chick was for the moment diverted from her
purpose. But presently summoning courage, and what she called presence
of mind, she sat down by the bedside, and said in the low precise tone
of one who endeavours to awaken a sleeper:
“Fanny! Fanny!”
There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of Mr Dombey’s watch
and Doctor Parker Peps’s watch, which seemed in the silence to be
running a race.
“Fanny, my dear,” said Mrs Chick, with assumed lightness, “here’s Mr
Dombey come to see you. Won’t you speak to him? They want to lay your
little boy—the baby, Fanny, you know; you have hardly seen him yet, I
think—in bed; but they can’t till you rouse yourself a little. Don’t
you think it’s time you roused yourself a little? Eh?”
She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same time looking
round at the bystanders, and holding up her finger.
“Eh?” she repeated, “what was it you said, Fanny? I didn’t hear you.”
No word or sound in answer. Mr Dombey’s watch and Dr Parker Peps’s
watch seemed to be racing faster.
“Now, really, Fanny my dear,” said the sister-in-law, altering her
position, and speaking less confidently, and more earnestly, in spite
of herself, “I shall have to be quite cross with you, if you don’t
rouse yourself. It’s necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps a
very great and painful effort which you are not disposed to make; but
this is a world of effort you know, Fanny, and we must never yield,
when so much depends upon us. Come! Try! I must really scold you if you
don’t!”
The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. The watches
seemed to jostle, and to trip each other up.
“Fanny!” said Louisa, glancing round, with a gathering alarm. “Only
look at me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and understand
me; will you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!”
The two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the
Physician, stooping down, whispered in the child’s ear. Not having
understood the purport of his whisper, the little creature turned her
perfectly colourless face and deep dark eyes towards him; but without
loosening her hold in the least.
The whisper was repeated.
“Mama!” said the child.
The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of
consciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eye lids
trembled, and the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile
was seen.
“Mama!” cried the child sobbing aloud. “Oh dear Mama! oh dear Mama!”
The Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of the child, aside
from the face and mouth of the mother. Alas how calm they lay there;
how little breath there was to stir them!
Thus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother
drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the
world.