“Your master’s in difficulties,” says Mrs. Pipchin, tartly. “You know that, I suppose?”
Mr. Towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowledge of the fact.
“And you’re all on the lookout for yourselves, I warrant you,” says Mrs. Pipchin, shaking her head at them.
A shrill voice from the rear exclaims, “No more than yourself!”
“That’s your opinion, Mrs. Impudence, is it?” says the ireful Pipchin, looking with a fiery eye over the intermediate heads.
“Yes, Mrs. Pipchin, it is,” replies Cook, advancing. “And what then, pray?”
“Why, then you may go as soon as you like,” says Mrs. Pipchin. “The sooner the better; and I hope I shall never see your face again.”
With this the doughty Pipchin produces a canvas bag; and tells her wages out to that day, and a month beyond it; and clutches the money tight, until a receipt for the same is duly signed, to the last upstroke; when she grudgingly lets it go. This form of proceeding Mrs. Pipchin repeats with every member of the household, until all are paid.
“Now those that choose, can go about their business,” says Mrs. Pipchin, “and those that choose can stay here on board wages for a week or so, and make themselves useful. Except,” says the inflammable Pipchin, “that slut of a cook, who’ll go immediately.”
“That,” says Cook, “she certainly will! I wish you good day, Mrs. Pipchin, and sincerely wish I could compliment you on the sweetness of your appearance!”
“Get along with you,” says Mrs. Pipchin, stamping her foot.
Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly exasperating to Mrs. Pipchin, and is shortly joined below stairs by the rest of the confederation.
Mr. Towlinson then says that, in the first place, he would beg to propose a little snack of something to eat; and over that snack would desire to offer a suggestion which he thinks will meet the position in which they find themselves. The refreshment being produced, and very heartily partaken of, Mr. Towlinson’s suggestion is, in effect, that Cook is going, and that if we are not true to ourselves, nobody will be true to us. That they have lived in that house a long time, and exerted themselves very much to be sociable together. (At this, Cook says, with emotion, “Hear, hear!” and Mrs. Perch, who is there again, and full to the throat, sheds tears.) And that he thinks, at the present time, the feeling ought to be “Go one, go all!” The housemaid is much affected by this generous sentiment, and warmly seconds it. Cook says she feels it’s right, and only hopes it’s not done as a compliment to her, but from a sense of duty. Mr. Towlinson replies, from a sense of duty; and that now he is driven to express his opinions, he will openly say, that he does not think it over-respectable to remain in a house where Sales and suchlike are carrying forwards. The housemaid is sure of it; and relates, in confirmation, that a strange man, in a carpet cap, offered, this very morning, to kiss her on the stairs. Hereupon, Mr. Towlinson is starting from his chair, to seek and “smash” the offender; when he is laid hold on by the ladies, who beseech him to calm himself, and to reflect that it is easier and wiser to leave the scene of such indecencies at once. Mrs. Perch, presenting the case in a new light, even shows that delicacy towards Mr. Dombey, shut up in his own rooms, imperatively demands precipitate retreat. “For what,” says the good woman, “must his feelings be, if he was to come upon any of the poor servants that he once deceived into thinking him immensely rich!” Cook is so struck by this moral consideration, that Mrs. Perch improves it with several pious axioms, original and selected. It becomes a clear case that they must all go. Boxes are packed, cabs fetched, and at dusk that evening there is not one member of the party left.
The house stands, large and weatherproof, in the long dull street; but it is a ruin, and the rats fly from it.
The men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the furniture about; and the gentlemen with the pens and ink make out inventories of it, and sit upon pieces of furniture never made to be sat upon, and eat bread and cheese from the public-house on other pieces of furniture never made to be eaten on, and seem to have a delight in appropriating precious articles to strange uses. Chaotic combinations of furniture also take place. Mattresses and bedding appear in the dining-room; the glass and china get into the conservatory; the great dinner service is set out in heaps on the long divan in the large drawing-room; and the stair-wires, made into fasces, decorate the marble chimneypieces. Finally, a rug, with a printed bill upon it, is hung out from the balcony; and a similar appendage graces either side of the hall door.
Then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs and chaise-carts in the street; and herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, overrun the house, sounding the plate-glass mirrors with their knuckles, striking discordant octaves on the Grand Piano, drawing wet forefingers over the pictures, breathing on the blades of the best dinner-knives, punching the squabs of chairs and sofas with their dirty fists, touzling the feather beds, opening and shutting all the drawers, balancing the silver spoons and forks, looking into the very threads of the drapery and linen, and disparaging everything. There is not a secret place in the whole house. Fluffy and snuffy strangers stare into the kitchen-range as curiously as into the attic clothespress. Stout men with napless hats on, look out of the bedroom windows, and cut jokes with friends in the street. Quiet, calculating spirits withdraw into the dressing-rooms with catalogues, and make marginal notes thereon, with stumps of pencils. Two brokers invade the very fire-escape, and take
