The Wedding
DAWN, with its passionless blank face, steals shivering to the church beneath
which lies the dust of little Paul and his mother, and looks in at the windows.
It is cold and dark. Night crouches yet, upon the pavement, and broods, sombre
and heavy, in nooks and corners of the building. The steeple-clock, perched up
above the houses, emerging from beneath another of the countless ripples in the
tide of time that regularly roll and break on the eternal shore, is greyly
visible, like a stone beacon, recording how the sea flows on; but within doors,
dawn, at first, can only peep at night, and see that it is there.
Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, dawn moans and weeps for
its short reign, and its tears trickle on the window-glass, and the trees
against the church-wall bow their heads, and wring their many hands in sympathy.
Night, growing pale before it, gradually fades out of the church, but lingers in
the vaults below, and sits upon the coffins. And now comes bright day,
burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening the spire, and drying up the tears
of dawn, and stifling its complaining; and the scared dawn, following the night,
and chasing it from its last refuge, shrinks into the vaults itself and hides,
with a frightened face, among the dead, until night returns, refreshed, to drive
it out.
And now, the mice, who have been busier with the prayer-books than their
proper owners, and with the hassocks, more worn by their little teeth by human
knees, hide their bright eyes in their holes, and gather close together in
affright at the resounding clashing of the church-door. For the beadle, that man
of power, comes early this morning with the sexton; and Mrs. Miff, the wheezy
little pew-opener--a mighty dry old lady, sparely dressed, with not an inch of
fulness anywhere about her--is also here, and has been waiting at the
church-gate half-an-hour, as her place is, for the beadle.
A vinegary face has Mrs. Miff, and a mortified bonnet, and eke a thirsty soul
for sixpences and shillings. Beckoning to stray people to come into pews, has
given Mrs. Miff an air of mystery; and there is reservation in the eye of Mrs.
Miff, as always knowing of a softer seat, but having her suspicions of the fee.
There is no such fact as Mr. Miff, nor has there been, these twenty years, and
Mrs. Miff would rather not allude to him. He held some bad opinions, it would
seem, about free seats, and though Mrs. Miff hopes he may be gone upwards, she
couldn't positively undertake to say so.
Busy is Mrs. Miff this morning at the church-door, beating and dusting the
altar-cloth, the carpet, and the cushions; and much has Mrs. Miff to say, about
the wedding they are going to have. Mrs. Miff is told, that the new furniture
and alterations in the house cost full five thousand pound if they cost a penny;
and Mrs. Miff has heard, upon the best authority, that the lady hasn't got a
sixpence wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs. Miff remembers, likewise, as if it
had happened yesterday, the first wife's funeral, and then the christening, and
then the other funeral; and Mrs. Miff says, by-the-bye she'll soap-and-water
that 'ere tablet presently, against the company arrive. Mr. Sownds, the Beadle,
who is sitting in the sun upon the church steps all this time (and seldom does
anything else, except, in cold weather, sitting by the fire), approves of Mrs.
Miff's discourse, and asks if Mrs. Miff has heard it said, that the lady is
uncommon handsome? The information Mrs. Miff has received, being of this nature,
Mr. Sownds the Beadle, who, though orthodox and corpulent, is still an admirer
of female beauty, observes, with unction, yes, he hears she is a spanker--an
expression that seems somewhat forcible to Mrs. Miff, or would, from any lips
but those of Mr. Sownds the Beadle.
In Mr. Dombey's house, at this same time, there is great stir and bustle,
more especially among the women: not one of whom has had a wink of sleep since
four o'clock, and all of whom were fully dressed before six. Mr. Towlinson is an
object of greater consideration than usual to the housemaid, and the cook says
at breakfast-time that one wedding makes many, which the housemaid can't
believe, and don't think true at all. Mr. Towlinson reserves his sentiments on
this question; being rendered something gloomy by the engagement of a foreigner
with whiskers (Mr. Towlinson is whiskerless himself), who has been hired to
accompany the happy pair to Paris, and who is busy packing the new chariot. In
respect of this personage, Mr. Towlinson admits, presently, that he never knew
of any good that ever come of foreigners; and being charged by the ladies with
prejudice, says, look at Bonaparte who was at the head of 'em, and see what he
was always up to!Which the housemaid says is very true.
The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funeral room in Brook Street, and the
very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the very tall young men already
smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to become fixed in his head, and
to stare at objects without seeing them. The very tall young man is conscious of
this failing in himself; and informs his comrade that it's his `exciseman.' The
very tall young man would say excitement, but his speech is hazy.
The men who play the bells have got scent of the marriage; and the
marrow-bones and cleavers too; and a brass band too. The first, are practising
in a back settlement near Battle-bridge; the second, put themselves in
communication, through their chief, with Mr. Towlinson, to whom they offer terms
to be bought off; and the third, in the person of an artful trombone, lurks and
dodges round the corner, waiting for some traitor tradesman to reveal the place
and hour of breakfast, for a bribe. Expectation and excitement extend further
yet, and take a wider range. From Balls Pond, Mr. Perch brings Mrs. Perch to
spend the day with Mr. Dombey's servants, and accompany them, surreptitiously,
to see the wedding. In Mr. Toots's lodgings, Mr. Toots attires himself as if he
were at least the Bridegroom; determined to behold the spectacle in splendour
from a secret corner of the gallery, and thither to convey the Chicken: for it
is Mr. Toots's desperate intent to point out Florence to the Chicken, then and
there, and openly to say, `Now, Chicken, I will not deceive you any longer; the
friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is myself; Miss Dombey is the object of
my passion; what are your opinions, Chicken, in this state of things, and what,
on the spot, do you advise?' The so-much-to-be-astonished Chicken, in the
meanwhile, dips his beak into a tankard of strong beer, in Mr. Toots's kitchen,
and pecks up two pounds of beefsteaks. In Princess's Place, Miss Tox is up and
doing; for she too, though in sore distress, is resolved to put a shilling in
the hands of Mrs. Miff, and see the ceremony which has a cruel fascination for
her, from some lonely corner. The quarters of the Wooden Midshipman are all
alive; for Captain Cuttle, in his ankle-jacks and with a huge shirt-collar, is
seated at his breakfast, listening to Rob the Grinder as he reads the marriage
service to him beforehand, under orders, to the end that the Captain may
perfectly understand the solemnity he is about to witness: for which purpose,
the Captain gravely lays injunctions on his chaplain, from time to time, to `put
about,' or to `overhaul that 'ere article again,' or to stick to his own duty,
and leave the Amens to him, the Captain; one of which he repeats, whenever a
pause is made by Rob the Grinder, with sonorous satisfaction.
Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids in Mr. Dombey's street
alone, have promised twenty families of little women, whose instinctive interest
in nuptials dates from their cradles, that they shall go and see the marriage.
Truly, Mr. Sownds the Beadle has good reason to feel himself in office, as he
suns his portly figure on the church steps, waiting for the marriage hour.
Truly, Mrs. Miff has cause to pounce on an unlucky dwarf child, with a giant
baby, who peeps in at the porch, and drive her forth with indignation!
Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly to attend the marriage.
Cousin Feenix was a man about town, forty years ago; but he is still so juvenile
in figure and in manner, and so well got up, that strangers are amazed when they
discover latent wrinkles in his lordship's face, and crows' feet in his eyes;
and first observe him, not exactly certain when he walks across a room, of going
quite straight to where he wants to go. But Cousin Feenix, getting up at
half-past seven o'clock or so, is quite another thing from Cousin Feenix got up;
and very dim, indeed, he looks, while being shaved at Long's Hotel, in Bond
Street.
Mr. Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general whisking away of the
women on the staircase, who disperse in all directions, with a great rustling of
skirts, except Mrs. Perch, who, being (but that she always is) in an interesting
situation, is not nimble, and is obliged to face him, and is ready to sink with
confusion as she curtseys;--may Heaven avert all evil consequences from the
house of Perch! Mr. Dombey walks up to the drawing-room, to bide his time.
Gorgeous are Mr. Dombey's new blue coat, fawn-coloured pantaloons, and lilac
waistcoat; and a whisper goes about the house, that Mr. Dombey's hair is curled.
A double knock announces the arrival of the Major, who is orgeous too, and
wears a whole geranium in his button-hole, and has his hair curled tight and
crisp, as well the Native knows
`Dombey!' says the Major, putting out both hands, `how are you?'
`Major,' says Mr. Dombey, `how are You?'
`By Jove, Sir,' says the Major, `Joey B. is in such case this morning,
Sir,'--and here he hits himself hard upon the breast--`in such case this
morning, Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a double marriage
of it, Sir, and take the mother.'
Mr. Dombey smiles; but faintly, even for him; for Mr. Dombey feels that he is
going to be related to the mother, and that, under those circumstances, she is
not to be joked about.
`Dombey,' says the Major, seeing this, `I give you joy. I congratulate you,
Dombey. By the Lord, Sir,' says the Major, `you are more to be envied, this day,
than any man in England!'
Here again Mr. Dombey's assent is qualified; because he is going to confer a
great distinction on a lady; and, no doubt, she is to be envied most.
`As to Edith Granger, Sir,' pursues the Major, `there is not a woman in all
Europe but might--and would, Sir, you will allow Bagstock to add--and would give
her ears, and her earrings, too, to be in Edith Granger's place.'
`You are good enough to say so, Major,' says Mr. Dombey.
`Dombey,' returns the Major, `you know it. Let us have no false delicacy. You
know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Dombey?' says the Major, almost in a
passion.
`Oh, really, Major--'
`Damme, Sir,' retorts the Major, `do you know that fact, or do you not?
Dombey! Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of unreserved intimacy,
Dombey, that may justify a man--a blunt old Joseph B., Sir--in speaking out; or
am I to take open order, Dombey, and to keep my distance, and to stand on
forms?'
`My dear Major Bagstock.' says Mr. Dombey, with a gratified air, `you are
quite warm.'
`By Gad, Sir,' says the Major, `I am warm. Joseph B. does not deny it,
Dombey. He is warm. This is an occasion, Sir, that calls forth all the honest
sympathies remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used-up, invalided, J. B.
carcase. And I tell you what, Dombey--at such a time a man must blurt out what
he feels, or put a muzzle on; and Joseph Bagstock tells you to your face,
Dombey, as he tells his club behind your back, that he never will be muzzled
when Paul Dombey is in question. Now, damme, Sir,' concludes the Major, with
great firmness, `what do you make of that?'
`Major,' says Mr. Dombey, `I assure you that I am really obliged to you. I
had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.'
`Not too partial, Sir!' exclaims the choleric Major. `Dombey, I deny it.'
`Your friendship I will say then,' pursues Mr. Dombey, `on any account. Nor
can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present, how much I am indebted
to it.'
`Dombey,' says the Major, with appropriate action, `that is the hand of
Joseph Bagstock: of plain old Joey B., Sir, if you like that better! That is the
hand of which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York did me the honour to
observe, Sir, to His Royal Highness the late Duke of Kent, that it was the hand
of Josh.: a rough and tough, and possibly an up-to-snuff, old vagabond. Dombey,
may the present moment be the least unhappy of our lives. God bless you!'
Now enters Mr. Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a wedding-guest
indeed. He can scarcely let Mr. Dombey's hand go, he is so congratulatory; and
he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the same time, that his voice shakes
too, in accord with his arms, as it comes sliding from between his teeth.
`The very day is auspicious,' says Mr. Carker. `The brightest and most genial
weather! I hope I am not a moment late?'
`Punctual to your time, Sir,' says the Major.
`I am rejoiced, I am sure,' says Mr. Carker. `I was afraid I might be a few
seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by a procession of waggons;
and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook Street'--this to Mr. Dombey--`to
leave a few poor rarities of flowers for Mrs. Dombey. A man in my position, and
so distinguished as to be invited here, is proud to offer some homage in
acknowledgment of his vassalage: and as I have no doubt Mrs. Dombey is
overwhelmed with what is costly and magnificent;' with a strange glance at his
patron; `I hope the very poverty of my offering, may find favour for it.'
`Mrs. Dombey, that is to be,' returns Mr. Dombey, condescending, `will be
very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.'
`And if she is to be Mrs. Dombey this morning, Sir, says the Major, putting
down his coffee-cup, and looking at his watch, `it's high time we were off!'
Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr. Dombey, Major Bagstock, and Mr. Carker, to the
church. Mr. Sownds the Beadle has long risen from the steps, and is in waiting
with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs. Miff curtseys and proposes chairs in the
vestry. Mr. Dombey prefers remaining in the church. As he looks up at the organ,
Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks behind the fat leg of a cherub on a monument,
with cheeks like a young Wind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up and
waves his hook, in token of welcome and encouragement. Mr. Toots informs the
Chicken, behind his hand, that the middle gentleman, he in the fawn-coloured
pantaloons, is the father of his love. The Chicken hoarsely whispers Mr. Toots
that he's as stiff a cove as ever he see, but that it is within the resources of
Science to double him up, with one blow in the waistcoat.
Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff are eyeing Mr. Dombey from a little distance, when
the noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr. Sownds goes out; Mrs. Miff,
meeting Mr. Dombey's eye as it is withdrawn from the presumptuous maniac up
stairs, who salutes him with so much urbanity, drops a curtsey, and informs him
that she believes his `good lady' is come. Then there is a crowding and a
whispering at the door, and the good lady enters, with a haughty step.
There is no sign upon her face, of last night's suffering; there is no trace
in her manner, of the woman on the bended knees reposing her wild head, in
beautiful abandonment, upon the pillow of the sleeping girl. That girl, all
gentle and lovely, is at her side--a striking contrast to her own disdainful and
defiant figure, standing there, composed, erect, inscrutable of will,
resplendent and majestic in the zenith of its charms, yet beating down, and
treading on, the admiration that it challenges.
There is a pause while Mr. Sownds the Beadle glides into the vestry for the
clergyman and clerk. At this juncture, Mrs. Skewton speaks to Mr. Dombey: more
distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and moving at the same time,
close to Edith.
`My dear Dombey,' said the good Mama, `I fear I must relinquish darling
Florence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she herself proposed. After my
loss of to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have spirits, even for her
society.'
`Had she not better stay with you?' returns the Bridegroom.
`I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better alone.
Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guardian when you
return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. She might be
jealous. Eh, dear Edith?'
The affectionate Mama Presses her daughter's arm, as she says this; perhaps
entreating her attention earnestly.
`To be serious, my dear Dombey,' she resumes, `I will relinquish our dear
child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled that, just now. She
fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear,--she fully understands.'
Again, the good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr. Dombey offers no
additional remonstrance; for the clergyman and clerk appear; and Mrs. Miff, and
Mr. Sownds the Beadle, group the party in their proper places at the altar
rails.
`"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"'
Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-Baden or purpose. `Confound
it,' Cousin Feenix says--good-natured creature, Cousin Feenix--`when we do get a
rich City fellow into the family, let us show him some attention; let us do
something for him.'
`I give this woman to be married to this man,' saith Cousin Feenix therefore.
Cousin Feenix, meaning to go in a straight line, but turning off sideways by
reason of his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be married to this man, at
first--to wit, a bridesmaid of some condition, distantly connected with the
family, and ten years Mrs. Skewton's junior--but Mrs. Miff, interposing her
mortified bonnet, dexterously turns him back, and runs him, as on castors, full
at the `good lady:' whom Cousin Feenix giveth to be married to this man
accordingly.
And will they in the sight of heaven--?
Aye, that they will: Mr. Dombey says he will. And what says Edith? She will.
So, from that day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do them part, they
plight their troth to one another, and are married.
In a firm, free hand, the Bride subscribes her name in the register, when
they adjourn to the vestry. `There an't a many ladies come here,' Mrs. Miff says
with a curtsey--to look at Mrs. Miff, at such a season, is to make her mortified
bonnet go down with a dip--`writes their names like this good lady!' Mr. Sownds
the Beadle thinks it is a truly spanking signature, and worthy of the
writer--this, however, between himself and conscience.
Florence signs too, but unapplauded, for her hand shakes. All the party sign;
Cousin Feenix last; who puts his noble name into a wrong place, and enrols
himself as having been born that morning.
The Major now salutes the Bride right gallantly, and carries out that branch
of military tactics in reference to all the ladies: notwithstanding Mrs.
Skewton's being extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the sacred
edifice. The example is followed by Cousin Feenix, and even by Mr. Dombey.
Lastly, Mr. Carker, with his white teeth glistening, approaches Edith, more as
if he meant to bite her, than to taste the sweets that linger on her lips.
There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing in her eyes, that may be
meant to stay him; but it does not, for he salutes her as the rest have done,
and wishes her all happiness.
`If wishes,' says he in a low voice, ` are not superfluous, applied to such a
union.'
`I thank you, Sir,' she answers, with a curled lip, and a heaving bosom.
But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that Mr. Dombey
would return to offer his alliance, that Carker knows her thoroughly, and reads
her right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge of her, than by aught
else? Is it for this reason that her haughtiness shrinks beneath his smile, like
snow within the hand that grasps it firmly, and that her imperious glance droops
in meeting his, and seeks the ground?
`I am proud to see,' said Mr. Carker, with a servile stooping of his neck,
which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a lie, `I am
proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs. Dombey's hand, and
permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful an occasion.'
Though she bends her head, in answer, there is something in the momentary
action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it holds, and fling them,
with contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts the hand through the arm of her
new husband, who has been standing near, conversing with the Major, and is proud
again, and motionless, and silent.
The carriages are once more at the church door. Mr. Dombey, with his bride
upon his arm, conducts her through the twenty families of little women who are
on the steps, and every one of whom remembers the fashion and the colour of her
every article of dress from that moment, and reproduces it on her doll, who is
for ever being married. Cleopatra and Cousin Feenix enter the same carriage. The
Major hands into a second carriage, Florence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly
escaped being given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and is followed
by Mr. Carker. Horses prance and caper; coachmen and footmen shine in fluttering
favours, flowers, and new-made liveries. Away they dash and rattle through the
streets: and as they pass along, a thousand heads are turned to look at them,
and a thousand sober moralists revenge themselves for not being married too,
that morning, by reflecting that these people little think such happiness can't
last.
Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherub's leg, when all is quiet, and comes
slowly down from the gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are red, and her
pocket-handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and she hopes
they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the beauty of the bride, and her
own comparatively feeble and faded attractions; but the stately image of Mr.
Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his fawn-coloured pantaloons, is present to
her mind, and Miss Tox weeps afresh, behind her veil, on her way home to
Princess's Place. Captain Cuttle, having joined in all the amens and responses,
with a devout growl, feels much improved by his religious exercises; and in a
peaceful frame of mind, pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in hand, and
reads the tablet to the memory of little Paul. The gallant Mr. Toots, attended
by the faithful Chicken, leaves the building in torments of love. The Chicken is
as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning Florence, but his first idea has
gained possession of him, and he thinks the doubling up of Mr. Dombey would be a
move in the right direction. Mr. Dombey's servants come out of their
hiding-places, and prepare to rush to Brook Street, when they are delayed by
symptoms of indisposition on the part of Mrs. Perch, who entreats a glass of
water, and becomes alarming; Mrs. Perch gets better soon, however, and is borne
away; and Mrs. Miff, and Mr. Sownds the Beadle, sit upon the steps to count what
they have gained by the affair, and talk it over, while the sexton tolls a
funeral.
Now, the carriages arrive at the Bride's residence, and the players on the
bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr. Punch, that model of
connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run and push, and press round
in a gaping throng, while Mr. Dombey, leading Mrs. Dombey by the hand, advances
solemnly into the Feenix Halls. Now, the rest of the wedding party alight, and
enter after them. And why does Mr. Carker, passing through the people to the
hall-door, think of the old woman who called to him in the Grove that morning?
Or why does Florence, as she passes, think, with a tremble, of her childhood,
when she was lost, and of the visage of good Mrs. Brown?
Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more
company, though not much; and now they leave the drawing-room, and range
themselves at table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confectioner can
brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many flowers and
love-knots as he will.
The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich breakfast is
set forth. Mr. and Mrs. Chick have joined the party, among others. Mrs. Chick
admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect Dombey; and is affable
and confidential to Mrs. Skewton, whose mind is relieved of a great load, and
who takes her share of the champagne. The very tall young man who suffered from
excitement early, is better; but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon
him, and he hates the other very tall young man, and wrests dishes from him by
violence, and takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The company are
cool and calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of pictures looking down
upon them, by any excess of mirth. Cousin Feenix and the Major are the gayest
there; but Mr. Carker has a smile for the whole table. He has an especial smile
for the Bride, who very, very seldom meets it.
Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the servants have
left the room; and wonderfully young he looks, with his white wristbands almost
covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and the bloom of the champagne in
his cheeks.
`Upon my honour,' says Cousin Feenix, `although it's an unusual sort of thing
is a private gentleman's house, I must beg leave to call upon you to drink what
is usually called a--in fact a toast.'
The Major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr. Carker, bending his head
forward over the table in the direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles and nods a
great many times.
`A--in fact it's not a--' Cousin Feenix beginning again, thus, comes to a
dead stop.
`Hear, hear!' says the Major, in a tone of conviction.
Mr. Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table again,
smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as if he were particularly
struck by this last observation, and desired personally to express his sense of
the good it has done him.
`It is,' says Cousin Feenix, `an occasion in fact, when the general usages of
life may be a little departed from, without impropriety; and although I never
was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of Commons, and had the
honour of seconding the address, was--in fact, was laid up for a fort-night with
the consciousness of failure--'
The Major and Mr. Carker are so much delighted by this fragment of personal
history, that Cousin Feenix laughs, and addressing them individually, goes on to
say:
`And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill--still, you know, I feel that
a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon an Englishman, he is
bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best way he can. Well! our family
has had the gratification, to-day, of connecting itself, in the person of my
lovely and accomplished relative, whom I now see--in point of fact, present--'
Here there is general applause.
`Present,' repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat point which will
bear repetition,--`with one who--that is to say, with a man, at whom the finger
of scorn can never--in fact, with my honourable friend Dombey, if he will allow
me to call him so.'
Cousin Feenix bows to Mr. Dombey; Mr. Dombey solemnly returns the bow;
everybody is more or less gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and
perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings.
`I have not,' says Cousin Feenix, `enjoyed those opportunities which I could
have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my friend Dombey, and studying
those qualities which do equal honour to his head, and, in point of fact, to his
heart; for it has been my misfortune to be, as we used to say in my time in the
House of Commons, when it was not the custom to allude to the Lords, and when
the order of parliamentary proceedings was perhaps better observed than it is
now--to be in--in point of fact,' says Cousin Feenix, cherishing his joke, with
great slyness, and finally bringing it out with a jerk, `"in another place!"'
The Major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty.
`But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,' resumes Cousin Feenix in a
graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and wiser man, `to know that
he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically called a--a merchant--a
British merchant--and a--and a man. And although I have been resident abroad for
some years (it would give me great pleasure to receive my friend Dombey, and
everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to have an opportunity of making 'em known
to the Grand Duke), still I know enough, I flatter myself, of my lovely and
accomplished relative, to know that she possesses every requisite to make a man
happy, and that her marriage with my friend Dombey is one of inclination and
affection on both sides.'
Many smiles and nods from Mr. Carker.
`Therefore,' says Cousin Feenix, `I congratulate the family of which I am a
member, on the acquisition of my friend Dombey. I congratulate my friend Dombey
on his union with my lovely and accomplished relative who possesses every
requisite to make a man happy; and I take the liberty of calling on you all, in
point of fact, to congratulate both my friend Dombey and my lovely and
accomplished relative, on the present occasion.'
The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great applause, and Mr. Dombey
returns thanks on behalf of himself and Mrs. Dombey. J. B. shortly afterwards
proposes Mr. Skewton. The breakfast languishes when that is done, the violated
hatchments are avenged, and Edith rises to assume her travelling dress.
All the servants in the meantime, have been breakfasting below. Champagne has
grown too common among them to be mentioned, and roast fowls, raised pies, and
lobster-salad, have become mere drugs. The very tall young man has recovered his
spirits, and again alludes to the exciseman. His comrade's eye begins to emulate
his own, and he, too, stares at objects without taking cognizance thereof. There
is a general redness in the faces of the ladies; in the face of Mrs. Perch
particularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far above the cares of
life, that if she were asked just now to direct a wayfarer to Ball's Pond, where
her own cares lodge, she would have some difficulty in recalling the way. Mr.
Towlinson has proposed the happy pair; to which the silver-headed butler has
responded neatly, and with emotion; for he half begins to think he is an old
retainer of the family, and that he is bound to be affected by these changes.
The whole party, and especially the ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr. Dombey's
cook, who generally takes the lead in society, has said, it is impossible to
settle down after this, and why not go, in a party, to the play? Everybody (Mrs.
Perch included) has agreed to this: even the Native, who is tigerish in his
drink, and who alarms the ladies (Mrs. Perch particularly) by the rolling of his
eyes. One of the very tall young men has even proposed a ball after the play,
and it presents itself to no one (Mrs. Perch included) in the light of an
impossibility. Words have arisen between the housemaid and Mr. Towlinson; she,
on the authority of an old saw, asserting marriages to be made in Heaven: he,
affecting to trace the manufacture elsewhere; he, supposing that she says so,
because she thinks of being married her own self: she, saying, Lord forbid, at
any rate, that she should ever marry him. To calm these flying taunts, the
silver-headed butler rises to propose the health of Mr. Towlinson, whom to know
is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish well settled in life with the object of
his choice, wherever (here the silver-headed butler eyes the housemaid) she may
be. Mr. Towlinson returns thanks in a speech replete with feeling, of which the
peroration turns on foreigners, regarding whom he says they may find favour,
sometimes with weak and inconstant intellects that can be led away by hair, but
all he hopes, is, he may never hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of
no travelling chariot. The eye of Mr. Towlinson is so severe and so expressive
here, that the housemaid is turning hysterical, when she and all the rest,
roused by the intelligence that the Bride is going away, hurry upstairs to
witness her departure.
The chariot is at the door; the Bride is descending to the hall, where Mr.
Dombey waits for her. Florence is ready on the staircase to depart too; and Miss
Nipper, who has held a middle state between the parlour and the kitchen, is
prepared to accompany her. As Edith appears, Florence hastens towards her, to
bid her farewell.
Is Edith cold, that she should tremble! Is there anything unnatural or
unwholesome in the touch of Florence, that the beautiful form recedes and
contracts, as if it could not bear it!Is there so much hurry in this going away,
that Edith, with a wave of her hand, sweeps on, and is gone!
Mrs. Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a mother, sinks on her sofa in
the Cleopatra attitude, when the clatter of the chariot wheels is lost, and
sheds several tears. The Major, coming with the rest of the company from table,
endeavours to comfort her; but she will not be comforted on any terms, and so
the Major takes his leave. Cousin Feenix takes his leave, and Mr. Carker takes
his leave. The guests all go away. Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy
from her strong emotion, and falls asleep.
Giddiness prevails below stairs too. The very tall young man whose excitement
came on so soon, appears to have his head glued to the table in the pantry, and
cannot be detached from it. A violent revulsion has taken place in the spirits
of Mrs. Perch, who is low on account of Mr. Perch, and tells cook that she fears
he is not so much attached to his home, as he used to be, when they were only
nine in family. Mr. Towlinson has a singing in his ears and a large wheel going
round and round inside his head. The housemaid wishes it wasn't wicked to with
that one was dead.
There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower regions, on the subject
of time; everybody conceiving that it ought to be, at the earliest, ten o'clock
at night, whereas it is not yet three in the afternoon. A shadowy idea of
wickedness committed, haunts every individual in the party; and each one
secretly thinks the other a companion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable to
avoid. No man or woman has the hardihood to hint at the projected visit to the
play. Any one reviving the notion of the ball, would be scouted as a malignant
idiot.
Mrs. Skewton sleeps up stairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are not yet
over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look down on crumbs,
dirty plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale discoloured heel-taps,
scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fowls, and pensive jellies, gradually resolving
themselves into a lukewarm gummy soup. The marriage is, by this time, almost as
denuded to its show and garnish as the breakfast. Mr. Dombey's servants moralise
so much about it, and are so repentant over their early tea, at home, that by
eight o'clock or so, they settle down into confirmed seriousness; and Mr. Perch,
arriving at that time from the City, fresh and jocular, with a white waistcoat
and a comic song, ready to spend the evening, and prepared for any amount of
dissipation, is amazed to find himself coldly received, and Mrs. Perch but
poorly, and to have the pleasing duty of escorting that lady home by the next
omnibus.
Night closes in. Florence having rambled through the handsome house, from
room to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of Edith has surrounded her
with luxuries and comforts; and divesting herself of her handsome dress, puts on
her old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits down to read, with Diogenes
winking and blinking on the ground beside her. But Florence cannot read
to-night. The house seems strange and new, and there are loud echoes in it.
There is a shadow on her heart: she knows not why or what: but it is heavy.
Florence shuts her book, and gruff Diogenes, who takes that for a signal, puts
his paws upon her lap, and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But
Florence cannot see him plainly, in a little time, for there is a mist between
her eyes and him, and her dead brother and dead mother shine in it like angels.
Walter, too, poor wandering shipwrecked boy, oh, where is he?
The Major don't know; that's for certain; and don't care. The Major, having
choked and slumbered, all the afternoon, has taken a late dinner at his club,
and now sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest young man, with a
fresh-coloured face, at the next table (who would give a handsome sum to be able
to rise and go away, but cannot do it) to the verge of madness, by anecdotes of
Bagstock, Sir, at Dombey's wedding, and Old Joe's devilish gentlemanly friend,
Lord Feenix. While Cousin Feenix, who ought to be at Long's' and in bed, finds
himself, instead, at a gaming-table, where his wilful legs have taken him,
perhaps, in his own despite.
Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof, and holds
dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through the
windows; and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the vaults, and
follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead. The timid mice again
cower close together, when the great door clashes, and Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff,
treading the circle of their daily lives, unbroken as a marriage ring, come in.
Again, the cocked hat and the mortified bonnet stand in the background at the
marriage hour; and again this man taketh this woman, and this woman taketh this
man, on the solemn terms:
`To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer
for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do
them part.'
The very words that Mr. Carker rides into town repeating, with his mouth
stretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way.
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