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.