Meanwhile terms were ratified and agreed upon between Mrs Chick and Richards, with the assistance of Miss Tox; and Richards being with much ceremony invested with the Dombey baby, as if it were an Order, resigned her own, with many tears and kisses, to Jemima. Glasses of wine were then produced, to sustain the drooping spirits of the family; and Miss Tox, busying herself in dispensing “tastes” to the younger branches, bred them up to their father’s business with such surprising expedition, that she made chokers of four of them in a quarter of a minute.
“You’ll take a glass yourself, Sir, won’t you?” said Miss Tox, as Toodle appeared.
“Thankee, Mum,” said Toodle, “since you are suppressing.”
“And you’re very glad to leave your dear good wife in such a comfortable home, ain’t you, Sir?” said Miss Tox, nodding and winking at him stealthily.
“No, Mum,” said Toodle. “Here’s wishing of her back agin.”
Polly cried more than ever at this. So Mrs Chick, who had her matronly apprehensions that this indulgence in grief might be prejudicial to the little Dombey (“acid, indeed,” she whispered Miss Tox), hastened to the rescue.
“Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sister Jemima, Richards,” said Mrs Chick; “and you have only to make an effort—this is a world of effort, you know, Richards—to be very happy indeed. You have been already measured for your mourning, haven’t you, Richards?”
“Ye—es, Ma’am,” sobbed Polly.
“And it’ll fit beautifully. I know,” said Mrs Chick, “for the same young person has made me many dresses. The very best materials, too!”
“Lor, you’ll be so smart,” said Miss Tox, “that your husband won’t know you; will you, Sir?”