With these words, Miss Nipper preceded her foe out of the room; and walking upstairs to her own apartments in great state, to the choking exasperation of the ireful Pipchin, sat down among her boxes and began to cry.
From this soft mood she was soon aroused, with a very wholesome and refreshing effect, by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin outside the door.
“Does that boldfaced slut,” said the fell Pipchin, “intend to take her warning, or does she not?”
Miss Nipper replied from within that the person described did not inhabit that part of the house, but that her name was Pipchin, and she was to be found in the housekeeper’s room.
“You saucy baggage!” retorted Mrs. Pipchin, rattling at the handle of the door. “Go along with you this minute. Pack up your things directly! How dare you talk in this way to a gentlewoman who has seen better days?”
To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle, that she pitied the better days that had seen Mrs. Pipchin; and that for her part she considered the worst days in the year to be about that lady’s mark, except that they were much too good for her.
“But you needn’t trouble yourself to make a noise at my door,” said Susan Nipper, “nor to contaminate the keyhole with your eye, I’m packing up and going you may take your affidavit.”
The Dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this intelligence, and with some general opinions upon young hussies as a race, and especially upon their demerits after being spoiled by Miss Dombey, withdrew to prepare the Nipper’s wages. Susan then bestirred herself to get her trunks in order, that she might take an immediate and dignified departure; sobbing heartily all the time, as she thought of Florence.
The object of her regret was not long in coming to her, for the news soon spread over the house that Susan Nipper had had a disturbance with Mrs. Pipchin, and that they had both appealed to Mr. Dombey, and that there had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr. Dombey’s room, and that Susan was going. The latter part of this confused rumour, Florence found to be so correct, that Susan had locked the last trunk and was sitting upon it with her bonnet on, when she came into her room.
“Susan!” cried Florence. “Going to leave me! You!”
“Oh for goodness gracious sake, Miss Floy,” said Susan, sobbing, “don’t speak a word to me or I shall demean myself before them Pi-i-pchinses, and I wouldn’t have ’em see me cry Miss Floy for worlds!”
“Susan!” said Florence. “My dear girl, my old friend! What shall I do without you! Can you bear to go away so?”
“No-n-o-o, my darling dear Miss Floy, I can’t indeed,” sobbed Susan. “But it can’t be helped, I’ve done my duty, Miss, I have indeed. It’s no fault of mine. I am quite resi-igned. I couldn’t stay my month or I could never leave you then my darling and I must at last as well as at first, don’t speak to me Miss Floy, for though I’m pretty firm I’m not a marble doorpost, my own dear.”
“What is it? Why is it?” said Florence, “Won’t you tell me?” For Susan was shaking her head.
“No-n-no, my darling,” returned Susan. “Don’t ask me, for I mustn’t, and whatever you do don’t put in a word for me to stop, for it couldn’t be and you’d only wrong yourself, and so God bless you my own precious and forgive me any harm I have done, or any temper I have showed in all these many years!”
With which entreaty, very heartily delivered, Susan hugged her mistress in her arms.
“My darling there’s a many that may come to serve you and be glad to serve you and who’ll serve you well and true,” said Susan, “but there can’t be one who’ll serve you so affectionate as me or love you half as dearly, that’s my comfort. Go-ood-bye, sweet Miss Floy!”
“Where will you go, Susan?” asked her weeping mistress.
“I’ve got a brother down in the country Miss—a farmer in Essex,” said the heartbroken Nipper, “that keeps ever so many co-o-ows and pigs and I shall go down there by the coach and sto-op with him, and don’t mind me, for I’ve got money in the Savings Banks my dear, and needn’t take another service just yet, which I couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t do, my heart’s own mistress!” Susan finished with a burst of sorrow, which was opportunely broken by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin talking downstairs; on hearing which, she dried her red and swollen eyes, and made a melancholy feint of calling jauntily to Mr. Towlinson to fetch a cab and carry down her boxes.
Florence, pale and hurried and distressed, but withheld from useless interference even here, by her dread of causing any new division between her father and his wife (whose stern, indignant face had been a warning to her a few moments since), and by her apprehension of being in some way unconsciously connected already with the dismissal of her old servant and friend, followed, weeping, downstairs to Edith’s dressing-room, whither Susan betook herself to make her parting curtsey.
“Now, here’s the cab, and here’s the boxes, get along with you, do!” said Mrs. Pipchin, presenting herself at the same moment. “I beg your pardon, Ma’am, but Mr. Dombey’s orders are imperative.”
Edith, sitting under the hands of her maid—she was going out to dinner—preserved her haughty face, and took not the least notice.
“There’s your money,” said Mrs. Pipchin, who in pursuance of her system, and in recollection of the Mines, was accustomed to rout the servants about, as she had routed her young Brighton boarders; to the everlasting acidulation of Master Bitherstone, “and the sooner this house sees your back the better.”
Susan had no spirits
