Chapter 2.
In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families.

I shall never cease to congratulate myself,’ said Mrs Chick,’ on having said, when I little thought what was in store for us,—really as if I was inspired by something,—that I forgave poor dear Fanny everything. Whatever happens, that must always be a comfort to me!’

Mrs Chick made this impressive observation in the drawing-room, after having descended thither from the inspection of the mantua-makers upstairs, who were busy on the family mourning. She delivered it for the behoof of Mr Chick, who was a stout bald gentleman, with a very large face, and his hands continually in his pockets, and who had a tendency in his nature to whistle and hum tunes, which, sensible of the indecorum of such sounds in a house of grief, he was at some pains to repress at present.

‘Don’t you over-exert yourself, Loo,’ said Mr Chick, ‘or you’ll be laid up with spasms, I see. Right tol loor rul! Bless my soul, I forgot! We’re here one day and gone the next!’

Mrs Chick contented herself with a glance of reproof, and then proceeded with the thread of her discourse.

‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘I hope this heart-rending occurrence will be a warning to all of us, to accustom ourselves to rouse ourselves, and to make efforts in time where they’re required of us. There’s a moral in everything, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will be our own faults if we lose sight of this one.’

Mr Chick invaded the grave silence which ensued on this remark with the singularly inappropriate air of ‘A cobbler there was;’ and checking himself, in some confusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly our own faults if we didn’t improve such melancholy occasions as the present.

‘Which might be better improved, I should think, Mr C.,’ retorted his helpmate, after a short pause, ‘than by the introduction, either of the college hornpipe, or the equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark of rump-te-iddity, bow-wow-wow!’—which Mr Chick had indeed indulged in, under his breath, and which Mrs Chick repeated in a tone of withering scorn.

‘Merely habit, my dear,’ pleaded Mr Chick.

‘Nonsense! Habit!’ returned his wife. ‘If you’re a rational being, don’t make such ridiculous excuses. Habit! If I was to get a habit (as you call it) of walking on the ceiling, like the flies, I should hear enough of it, I daresay.’

It appeared so probable that such a habit might be attended with some degree of notoriety, that Mr Chick didn’t venture to dispute the position.

‘Bow-wow-wow!’ repeated Mrs Chick with an emphasis of blighting contempt on the last syllable. ‘More like a professional singer with the hydrophobia, than a man in your station of life!’

‘How’s the Baby, Loo?’ asked Mr Chick: to change the subject.

‘What Baby do you mean?’ answered Mrs Chick.

‘The poor bereaved little baby,’ said Mr Chick. ‘I don’t know of any other, my dear.’

‘You don’t know of any other,’ retorted Mrs Chick. ‘More shame for you, I was going to say.’

Mr Chick looked astonished.

‘I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-room downstairs, one mass of babies, no one in their senses would believe.’

‘One mass of babies!’ repeated Mr Chick, staring with an alarmed expression about him.

‘It would have occurred to most men,’ said Mrs Chick, ‘that poor dear Fanny being no more,—those words of mine will always be a balm and comfort to me,’ here she dried her eyes; ‘it becomes necessary to provide a Nurse.’

‘Oh! Ah!’ said Mr Chick. ‘Toor-ru!—such is life, I mean. I hope you are suited, my dear.’

‘Indeed I am not,’ said Mrs Chick; ‘nor likely to be, so far as I can see, and in the meantime the poor child seems likely to be starved to death. Paul is so very particular—naturally so, of course, having set his whole heart on this one boy—and there are so many objections to everybody that offers, that I don’t see, myself, the least chance of an arrangement.

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[Literature] Charles Dickens: DOMBEY & SON #8/471