Dombey and Son by Charles Dickens (ebooks that read to you .txt) 📕

‘My dear Paul,’ returned his sister, ‘you do Miss Tox but justice, as a man of your penetration was sure, I knew, to do. I believe if there are three words in the English language for which she has a respect amounting almost to veneration, those words are, Dombey and Son.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Dombey, ‘I believe it. It does Miss Tox credit.’

‘And as to anything in the shape of a token, my dear Paul,’ pursued his sister, ‘all I can say is that anything you give Miss Tox will be hoarded and prized, I am sure, like a relic. But there is a way, my dear Paul, of showing your sense of Miss Tox’s friendliness in a still more flattering and acceptable manner, if you should be so inclined.’

‘How is that?’ asked Mr Dombey.

‘Godfathers, of course,’ continued Mrs Chick, ‘are important in point of connexion and influence.’

‘I don’t know why they should be, to my son,’ said Mr Dombey, coldly.

‘Very true, my dear Paul,’ retorted Mrs Chick, with an extraordinary show of animation, to cover the suddenness of her conversion; ‘and spoken like yourself. I might have expected nothing else from you. I might have known that such would have been your opinion. Perhaps;’ here Mrs Chick faltered again, as not quite comfortably feeling her way; ‘perhaps that is a reason why you might have the less objection to allowing Miss Tox to be godmother to the dear thing, if it were only as deputy and proxy for someone else. That it would be received as a great honour and distinction, Paul, I need not say.’

‘Louisa,’ said Mr Dombey, after a short pause, ‘it is not to be supposed—’

‘Certainly not,’ cried Mrs Chick, hastening to anticipate a refusal, ‘I never thought it was.’

Mr Dombey looked at her impatiently.

‘Don’t flurry me, my dear Paul,’ said his sister; ‘for that destroys me. I am far from strong. I have not been quite myself, since poor dear Fanny departed.’

Mr Dombey glanced at the pocket-handkerchief which his sister applied to her eyes, and resumed:

‘It is not be supposed, I say—’

‘And I say,’ murmured Mrs Chick, ‘that I never thought it was.’

‘Good Heaven, Louisa!’ said Mr Dombey.

‘No, my dear Paul,’ she remonstrated with tearful dignity, ‘I must really be allowed to speak. I am not so clever, or so reasoning, or so eloquent, or so anything, as you are. I know that very well. So much the worse for me. But if they were the last words I had to utter—and last words should be very solemn to you and me, Paul, after poor dear Fanny—I would still say I never thought it was. And what is more,’ added Mrs Chick with increased dignity, as if she had withheld her crushing argument until now, ‘I never did think it was.’

Mr Dombey walked to the window and back again.

‘It is not to be supposed, Louisa,’ he said (Mrs Chick had nailed her colours to the mast, and repeated ‘I know it isn’t,’ but he took no notice of it), ‘but that there are many persons who, supposing that I recognised any claim at all in such a case, have a claim upon me superior to Miss Tox’s. But I do not. I recognise no such thing. Paul and myself will be able, when the time comes, to hold our own—the House, in other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain its own, and hand down its own of itself, and without any such common-place aids. The kind of foreign help which people usually seek for their children, I can afford to despise; being above it, I hope. So that Paul’s infancy and childhood pass away well, and I see him becoming qualified without waste of time for the career on which he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He will make what powerful friends he pleases in after-life, when he is actively maintaining—and extending, if that is possible—the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until then, I am enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I have no wish that people should step in between us. I would much rather show my sense of the obliging conduct of a deserving person like your friend. Therefore let it be so; and your husband and myself will do well enough for the other sponsors, I daresay.’

In the course of these remarks, delivered with great majesty and grandeur, Mr Dombey had truly revealed the secret feelings of his breast. An indescribable distrust of anybody stepping in between himself and his son; a haughty dread of having any rival or partner in the boy’s respect and deference; a sharp misgiving, recently acquired, that he was not infallible in his power of bending and binding human wills; as sharp a jealousy of any second check or cross; these were, at that time the master keys of his soul. In all his life, he had never made a friend. His cold and distant nature had neither sought one, nor found one. And now, when that nature concentrated its whole force so strongly on a partial scheme of parental interest and ambition, it seemed as if its icy current, instead of being released by this influence, and running clear and free, had thawed for but an instant to admit its burden, and then frozen with it into one unyielding block.

Elevated thus to the godmothership of little Paul, in virtue of her insignificance, Miss Tox was from that hour chosen and appointed to office; and Mr Dombey further signified his pleasure that the ceremony, already long delayed, should take place without further postponement. His sister, who had been far from anticipating so signal a success, withdrew as soon as she could, to communicate it to her best of friends; and Mr Dombey was left alone in his library. He had already laid his hand upon the bellrope to convey his usual summons to Richards, when his eye fell upon a writing-desk, belonging to his deceased wife, which had been taken, among other things, from a cabinet in her chamber. It was not the first time that his eye had lighted on it He carried the key in his pocket; and he brought it to his table and opened it now—having previously locked the room door—with a well-accustomed hand.

From beneath a leaf of torn and cancelled scraps of paper, he took one letter that remained entire. Involuntarily holding his breath as he opened this document, and ‘bating in the stealthy action something of his arrogant demeanour, he sat down, resting his head upon one hand, and read it through.

He read it slowly and attentively, and with a nice particularity to every syllable. Otherwise than as his great deliberation seemed unnatural, and perhaps the result of an effort equally great, he allowed no sign of emotion to escape him. When he had read it through, he folded and refolded it slowly several times, and tore it carefully into fragments. Checking his hand in the act of throwing these away, he put them in his pocket, as if unwilling to trust them even to the chances of being re-united and deciphered; and instead of ringing, as usual, for little Paul, he sat solitary, all the evening, in his cheerless room.

There was anything but solitude in the nursery; for there, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox were enjoying a social evening, so much to the disgust of Miss Susan Nipper, that that young lady embraced every opportunity of making wry faces behind the door. Her feelings were so much excited on the occasion, that she found it indispensable to afford them this relief, even without having the comfort of any audience or sympathy whatever. As the knight-errants of old relieved their minds by carving their mistress’s names in deserts, and wildernesses, and other savage places where there was no probability of there ever being anybody to read them, so did Miss Susan Nipper curl her snub nose into drawers and wardrobes, put away winks of disparagement in cupboards, shed derisive squints into stone pitchers, and contradict and call names out in the passage.

The two interlopers, however, blissfully unconscious of the young lady’s sentiments, saw little Paul safe through all the stages of undressing, airy exercise, supper and bed; and then sat down to tea before the fire. The two children now lay, through the good offices of Polly, in one room; and it was not until the ladies were established at their tea-table that, happening to look towards the little beds, they thought of Florence.

‘How sound she sleeps!’ said Miss Tox.

‘Why, you know, my dear, she takes a great deal of exercise in the course of the day,’ returned Mrs Chick, ‘playing about little Paul so much.’

‘She is a curious child,’ said Miss Tox.

‘My dear,’ retorted Mrs Chick, in a low voice: ‘Her Mama, all over!’

‘In-deed!’ said Miss Tox. ‘Ah dear me!’

A tone of most extraordinary compassion Miss Tox said it in, though she had no distinct idea why, except that it was expected of her.

‘Florence will never, never, never be a Dombey,’ said Mrs Chick, ‘not if she lives to be a thousand years old.’

Miss Tox elevated her eyebrows, and was again full of commiseration.

‘I quite fret and worry myself about her,’ said Mrs Chick, with a sigh of modest merit. ‘I really don’t see what is to become of her when she grows older, or what position she is to take. She don’t gain on her Papa in the least. How can one expect she should, when she is so very unlike a Dombey?’

Miss Tox looked as if she saw no way out of such a cogent argument as that, at all.

‘And the child, you see,’ said Mrs Chick, in deep confidence, ‘has poor dear Fanny’s nature. She’ll never make an effort in after-life, I’ll venture to say. Never! She’ll never wind and twine herself about her Papa’s heart like—’

‘Like the ivy?’ suggested Miss Tox.

‘Like the ivy,’ Mrs Chick assented. ‘Never! She’ll never glide and nestle into the bosom of her Papa’s affections like—the—’

‘Startled fawn?’ suggested Miss Tox.

‘Like the startled fawn,’ said Mrs Chick. ‘Never! Poor Fanny! Yet, how I loved her!’

‘You must not distress yourself, my dear,’ said Miss Tox, in a soothing voice. ‘Now really! You have too much feeling.’

‘We have all our faults,’ said Mrs Chick, weeping and shaking her head. ‘I daresay we have. I never was blind to hers. I never said I was. Far from it. Yet how I loved her!’

What a satisfaction it was to Mrs Chick—a common-place piece of folly enough, compared with whom her sister-in-law had been a very angel of womanly intelligence and gentleness—to patronise and be tender to the memory of that lady: in exact pursuance of her conduct to her in her lifetime: and to thoroughly believe herself, and take herself in, and make herself uncommonly comfortable on the strength of her toleration! What a mighty pleasant virtue toleration should be when we are right, to be so very pleasant when we are wrong, and quite unable to demonstrate how we come to be invested with the privilege of exercising it!

Mrs Chick was yet drying her eyes and shaking her head, when Richards made bold to caution her that Miss Florence was awake and sitting in her bed. She had risen, as the nurse said, and the lashes of her eyes were wet with tears. But no one saw them glistening save Polly. No one else leant over her, and whispered soothing words to her, or was near enough to hear the flutter of her beating heart.

‘Oh! dear nurse!’ said the child, looking earnestly up in her face, ‘let me lie by my brother!’

‘Why, my pet?’ said Richards.

‘Oh! I think he loves me,’ cried the child wildly. ‘Let me lie by him. Pray do!’

Mrs Chick interposed with some motherly words about going to sleep like a dear, but Florence repeated her supplication, with a frightened look, and in a voice broken by sobs and tears.

‘I’ll not