"It would be pretty much the same to me, if you could," replies the sardonic Pipchin. "At any rate I’m going. I can’t stop here. I should be dead in a week. I had to cook my own pork chop yesterday, and I’m not used to it. My constitution will be giving way next. Besides, I had a very fair connexion at Brighton when I came here—little Pankey’s folks alone were worth a good eighty pounds a-year to me—and I can’t afford to throw it away. I ’ve written to my niece, and she expects me by this time."
"Have you spoken to my brother?" inquires Mrs. Chick.
"Oh, yes, it’s very easy to say speak to him," retorts Mrs. Pipchin. "How is it done? I called out to him yesterday, that I was no use here, and that he had better let me send for Mrs. Richards. He grunted something or other that meant yes, and I sent. Grunt indeed! If he had been Mr. Pipchin, he’d have had some reason to grunt. Yah! I’ve no patience with it!"
Here this exemplary female, who has pumped up so much fortitude and virtue from the depths of the Peruvian mines, rises from her cushioned property to see Mrs. Chick to the door. Mrs. Chick, deploring to the last the peculiar character of her brother, noiselessly retires, much occupied with her own sagacity and clearness of head.
In the dusk of the evening Mr. Toodle, being off duty, arrives with Polly and a box, and leaves them, with a sounding kiss, in the hall of the empty house, the retired character of which affects Mr. Toodle’s spirits strongly.
"I tell you what, Polly, me dear," says Mr. Toodle, "being now an ingine-driver, and well to do in the world, I shouldn’t allow of your coming here, to be made dull-like, if it warn’t for favours past. But favours past, Polly, is never to be forgot. To them which is in adversity, besides, your face is a cord’l. So let’s have another kiss on it, my dear. You wish no better than to do a right act, I know; and my views is, that it’s right and dutiful to do this. Good night, Polly!"
Mrs. Pipchin by this time looms dark in her black bombazeen skirts, black bonnet, and shawl; and has her personal property packed up; and has her chair (late a favourite chair of Mr. Dombey’s and the dead bargain of the sale) ready near the street door; and is only waiting for a fly-van, going to-night to Brighton on private service, which is to call for her, by private contract, and convey her home.
Presently it comes. Mrs. Pipchin’s wardrobe being handed in and stowed away, Mrs. Pipchin’s chair is next handed in, and placed in a convenient corner among certain trusses of hay; it being the intention of the amiable woman to occupy the chair during her journey. Mrs. Pipchin herself is next handed in, and grimly takes her seat. There is a snaky gleam in her hard grey eye, as of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, relays of hot chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp snappings at poor Berry, and all the other delights of her Ogress’s castle. Mrs. Pipchin almost laughs as the fly-van drives off, and she composes her black bombazeen skirts, and settles herself among the cushions of her easy chair.
The house is such a ruin that the rats have fled, and there is not one left.
But Polly, though alone in the deserted mansion—for there is no companionship in the shut-up rooms in which its late master hides his head—is not alone long. It is night; and she is sitting at work in the house-
