The chief thing that they know, below stairs, in the kitchen, is that “it seems like Sunday.” They can hardly persuade themselves but that there is something unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the people out of doors, who pursue their ordinary occupations, and wear their everyday attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds up, and the shutters open; and they make themselves dismally comfortable over bottles of wine, which are freely broached as on a festival. They are much inclined to moralise. Mr Towlinson proposes with a sigh, “Amendment to us all!” for which, as Cook says with another sigh, “There’s room enough, God knows.” In the evening, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox take to needlework again. In the evening also, Mr Towlinson goes out to take the air, accompanied by the housemaid, who has not yet tried her mourning bonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky street-corners, and Towlinson has visions of leading an altered and blameless existence as a serious greengrocer in Oxford Market.
There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr Dombey’s house tonight, than there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens the old household, settled down once more in their old ways. The rosy children opposite run past with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church. The juggler’s wife is active with the money-box in another quarter of the town. The mason sings and whistles as he chips out P-A-U-L in the marble slab before him.
And can it be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak creature makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep that nothing but the width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up! Florence, in her innocent affliction, might have answered, “Oh my brother, oh my dearly loved and loving brother! Only friend and companion of my slighted childhood! Could any less idea shed the light already dawning on your early grave, or give birth to the softened sorrow that is springing into life beneath this rain of tears!”
“My dear child,” said Mrs Chick, who held it as a duty incumbent on her, to improve the occasion, “when you are as old as I am—”
“Which will be the prime of life,” observed Miss Tox.
“You will then,” pursued Mrs Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox’s hand in acknowledgment of her friendly remark, “you will then know that all grief is unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.”
“I will try, dear aunt I do try,” answered Florence, sobbing.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mrs Chick, “because; my love, as our dear Miss Tox—of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there cannot possibly be two opinions—”
“My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,” said Miss Tox.
“—will tell you, and confirm by her experience,” pursued Mrs Chick, “we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is required of us. If any—my dear,” turning to Miss Tox, “I want a word. Mis—Mis-”