Another Wedding
MR. SOWNDS the beadle, and Mrs. Miff the pew-opener, are early at their posts
in the fine church where Mr. Dombey was married. A yellow-faced old gentleman
from India, is going to take unto himself a young wife this morning, and six
carriages full of company are expected, and Mrs. Miff has been informed that the
yellow-faced old gentleman could pave the road to church with diamonds and
hardly miss them. The nuptial benediction is to be a superior one, proceeding
from a very reverend, a dean, and the lady is to be given away, as an
extraordinary present, by somebody who comes express from the Horse Guards.
Mrs. Miff is more intolerant of common people this morning, than she
generally is; and she has always strong opinions on that subject, for it is
associated with free sittings. Mrs. Miff is not a student of political economy
(she thinks the science is connected with dissenters; `Baptists or Wesleyans, or
some o'them,' she says), but she can never understand what business your common
folks have to be married. `Drat 'em,' says Mrs. Miff, `you read the same things
over 'em, and instead of sovereigns get sixpences!'
Mr. Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs. Miff--but then he is nor a
pew-opener. `It must be done, ma'am,' he says. `We must marry 'em. We must have
our national schools to walk at the head of, and we must have our standing
armies. We must marry'em, ma'am,' says Mr. Sownds, `and keep the country going.'
Mr. Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs. Miff is dusting in the church,
when a young couple, plainly dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet of Mrs. Miff
is sharply turned towards them, for she espies in this early visit indications
of a runaway match. But they don't want to be married--`Only,' says the
gentleman, `to walk round the church.' And as he slips a genteel compliment into
the palm of Mrs. Miff, her vinegary face relaxes, and her mortified bonnet and
her spare dry figure dip and crackle.
Mrs. Miff resumes her dusting and plumps up her cushions--for the
yellow-faced old gentleman is reported to have tender knees--but keeps her
glazed, pew-opening eye on the young couple who are walking round the church.
`Ahem,' coughs Mrs. Miff, whose cough is drier than the hay in any hassock in
her charge, `you'll come to us one of these mornings, my dears, unless I'm much
mistaken!'
They are looking at a tablet on the wall, erected to the memory of some one
dead. They are a long way off from Mrs. Miff, but Mrs. Miff can see with half an
eye how she is leaning on his arm, and how his head is bent down over her.
`Well, well,' says Mrs. Miff, `you might do worse. For you're a tidy pair!'
There is nothing personal in Mrs. Miff's remark. She merely speaks of
stock-in-trade. She is hardly more curious in couples than in coffins. She is
such a spare, straight, dry old lady--such a pew of a woman--that you should
find as many individual sympathies in a ship. Mr. Sownds, now, who is fleshy,
and has scarlet in his coat, is of a different temperament. He says, as they
stand upon the steps watching the young couple away, that she has a pretty
figure, hasn't she, and as well as he could se (for she held her head down
coming out), an uncommon pretty face. `Altogether, Mrs. Miff,' says Mr. Sownds
with a relish, `she is what you may call a rose-bud.'
Mrs. Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bonnet; but approves of
this so little, that she inwardly resolves she wouldn't be the wife of Mr.
Sownds for any money he could give her, Beadle as he is.
And what are the young couple saying as they leave the church, and go out at
the gate?
`Dear Walter, thank you! I can go away, now, happy.'
`And when we come back, Florence, we will come and see his grave again.'
Florence lifts her eyes, so bright with tears, to his kind face; and clasps
her disengaged hand on that other modest little hand which clasps his arm.
`It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost empty yet. Let us
walk.'
`But you will be so tired, my love.'
`Oh no! I was very tired the first time that we ever walked together, but I
shall not be so to-day.'
And thus--not much changed--she, as innocent and earnest-hearted--he, as
frank, as hopeful, and more proud of her--Florence and Walter, on their bridal
morning, walk through the streets together.
Not even in that childish walk of long ago, were they so far removed from all
the world about them as to-day. The childish feet of long ago, did not tread
such enchanted ground as theirs do now. The confidence and love of children may
be given many times, and will spring up in many places; but the woman's heart of
Florence, with its undivided treasure, can be yielded only once, and under
slight or change, can only droop and die.
They take the streets that are the quietest, and do not go near that in which
her old home stands. It is a fair, warm summer morning, and the sun shines on
them, as they walk towards the darkening mist that overspreads the City. Riches
are uncovering in shops; jewels, gold, and silver flash in the goldsmith's sunny
windows; and great houses cast a stately shade upon them as they pass. But
through the light, and through the shade, they go on lovingly together, lost to
everything around; thinking of no other riches, and no prouder home, than they
have now in one another.
Gradually they come into the darker, narrower streets, where the sun, now
yellow, and now red, is seen through the mist, only at street corners, and in
small open spaces where there is a tree, or one of the innumerable churches, or
a paved way and a flight of steps, or a curious little patch of garden, or a
burying-ground, where the few tombs and tombstones are almost black. Lovingly
and trustfully, through all the narrow yards and alleys and the shady streets,
Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to be his wife.
Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that their church is very
near. They pass a few great stacks of ware-houses, with waggons at the doors,
and busy carmen stopping up the way--but Florence does not see or hear them--and
then the air is quiet, and the day is darkened, and she is trembling in a church
which has a strange smell like a cellar.
The Shabby little old man, ringer of the disappointed bell, is standing in
the porch, and has put his hat in the font--for he is quite at home there, being
sexton. He ushers them into an old brown, panelled, dusty vestry, like a
corner-cupboard with the shelves taken out; where the wormy registers diffuse a
smell like faded snuff, which has set the tearful Nipper sneezing.
Youthful, and how beautiful, the young bride looks, in this old dusty place,
with no kindred object near her but her husband. There is a dusty old clerk, who
keeps a sort of evaporated news shop underneath an archway opposite, behind a
perfect fortification of posts. There is a dusty old pew-opener who only keeps
herself, and finds that quite enough to do. There is a dusty old beadle (these
are Mr. Toots's beadle and pew-opener of last Sunday), who has something to do
with a Worshipful Company who have got a Hall in the Next yard, with a
stained-glass window in it that no mortal ever saw. There are dusty wooden
ledges and cornices poked in and out over the altar, and over the screen and
round the gallery, and over the inscription about what the Master and Wardens of
the Worshipful Company did in one thousand six hundred and ninety-four. There
are dusty old sounding-boards over the pulpit and reading-desk, looking like
lids to be let down on the officiating ministers, in case of their giving
offence. There is every possible provision for the accommodation of dust, except
in the churchyard, where the facilities in that respect are very limited.
The Captain, Uncle Sol, and Mr. Toots are come; the clergyman is putting on
his surplice in the vestry, while the clerk walks round him, blowing the dust
off it; and the bride and bridegroom stand before the altar. There is no
brides-maid, unless Susan Nipper is one; and no better father than Captain
Cuttle. A man with a wooden leg, chewing a faint apple and carrying a blue bag
in his hand, looks in to see what is going on; but finding it nothing
entertaining, stumps off again, and pegs his way among the echoes out of doors.
No gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, kneeling at the altar
with her timid head bowed down. The Morning luminary is built out, and don't
shine there. There is a meagre tree outside, where the sparrows are chirping a
little; and there is a blackbird in an eyelet-hole of sun in a dyer's garret,
over against the window, who whistles loudly whilst the service is performing;
and there is the man with the wooden leg stumping away. The amens of the dusty
clerk appear, like MacBeth's, to stick in his throat a little; but Captain
Cuttle helps him out, and does it with so much goodwill that he interpolates
three entirely new responses of that word, never introduced into the service
before.
They are married, and have signed their names in one of the old sneezy
registers, and the clergyman's surplice is restored to the dust, and the
clergyman is gone home. In a dark corner of the dark church, Florence has turned
to Susan Nipper, and is weeping in her arms. Mr. Toots's eyes are red. The
Captain lubricates his nose. Uncle Sol has pulled down his spectacles from his
forehead, and walked out to the door.
`God bless you, Susan; dearest Susan! If you ever can bear witness to the
love I have for Walter, and the reason that I have to love him, do it for his
sake. Good-bye! Good-bye!'
They have thought it better not to go back to the Midshipman, but to part so;
a coach is waiting for them, near at hand.
Miss Nipper cannot speak; she only sobs and chokes, and hugs her mistress.
Mr. Toots advances, urges her to cheer up, and takes charge of her. Florence
gives him her hand--gives him, in the fulness of her heart, her lips--kisses
Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and is borne away by her young husband.
But Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away with a mournful
recollection of her. She had meant to be so different, that she reproaches
herself bitterly. Intent on making one last effort to redeem her character, she
breaks from Mr. Toots and runs away to find the coach, and show a parting smile.
The Captain, divining her object, sets off after her; for he feels it his duty
also to dismiss them with a cheer, if possible. Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots are left
behind together, outside the church, to wait for them.
The coach is gone, but the street is steep, and narrow, and blocked up, and
Susan can see it at a stand-still in the distance, she is sure. Captain Cuttle
follows her as she flies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a general
signal, which may attract the right coach and which may not.
Susan outstrips the Captain, and comes up with it. She looks in at the
window, sees Walter, with the gentle face beside him, and claps her hands and
screams:
`Miss Floy, my darling! look at me! We are all so happy now, dear! One more
good-bye, my precious, one more!'
How Susan does it, she don't know, but she reaches to the window, kisses her,
and has her arms about her neck, in a moment.
`We are all so--so happy now, my dear Miss Floy!' says Susan, with a
suspicious catching in her breath. `You, you won't be angry with me now. Now
will you?' `Angry, Susan!'
`No, no; I am sure you won't. I say you won't, my pet, my dearest!' exclaims
Susan; `and here's the Captain too--your friend the Captain, you know--to say
good-bye once more!'
`Hooroar, my Heart's Delight!' vociferates the Captain, with a countenance of
strong emotion. `Hooroar, Wal'r my lad. Hooroar! Hooroar!'
What with the young husband at one window, and the young wife at the other;
the Captain hanging on at this door, and Susan Nipper holding fast by that; the
coach obliged to go on whether it will or no, and all the other carts and
coaches turbulent because it hesitates; there never was so much confusion on
four wheels. But Susan Nipper gallantly maintains her point. She keeps a smiling
face upon her mistress, smiling through her tears, until the last. Even when she
is left behind, the Captain continues to appear and disappear at the door,
crying `Hooroar, my lad! Hooroar, my Heart's Delight!' with his shirt-collar in
a violent state of agitation, until it is hopeless to attempt to keep up with
the coach any longer. Finally, when the coach is gone, Susan Nipper, being
rejoined by the Captain, falls into a state of insensibility, and is taken into
a baker's shop to recover.
Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots wait patiently in the churchyard, sitting on the
coping-stone of the railings, until Captain Cuttle and Susan come back. Neither
being at all desirous to speak, or to be spoken to, they are excellent company,
and quite satisfied. When they all arrive again at the little Midshipman, and
sit down to breakfast, nobody can touch a morsel. Captain Cuttle makes a feint
of being voracious about toast, but gives it up as a swindle. Mr. Toots says,
after breakfast, he will come back in the evening; and goes wandering about the
town all day, with a vague sensation upon him as if he hadn't been to bed for a
fortnight.
There is a strange charm in the house, and in the room, in which they have
been used to be together, and out of which so much is gone. It aggravates, and
yet it soothes, the sorrow of the separation. Mr. Toots tells Susan Nipper when
he comes at night, that he hasn't been so wretched all day long, and yet he
likes it. He confides in Susan Nipper, being alone with her, and tells her what
his feelings were when she gave him that candid opinion as to the probability of
Miss Dombey's ever loving him. In the vein of confidence engendered by these
common recollections, and their tears, Mr. Toots proposes that they shall go out
together, and buy something for supper. Miss Nipper assenting, they buy a good
many little things; and, with the aid of Mrs. Richards, set the supper out quite
showily before the Captain and old Sol came home.
The Captain and old Sol have been on board the ship, and have established Di
there, and have seen the chests put aboard. They have much to tell about the
popularity of Walter, and the comforts he will have about him, and the quiet way
in which it seems he has been working early and late, to make his cabin what the
Captain calls `a picter,' to surprise his little wife. `A admiral's cabin, mind
you,' says the Captain, `ain't more trim.'
But one of the Captain's chief delights is, that he knows the big watch, and
the sugar-tongs, and tea-spoons, are on board: and again and again he murmurs to
himself, `Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life
than when you made that there little property over jintly. You see how the land
bore, Ed'ard,' says the Captain, `and it does you credit, my lad.'
The old Instrument-maker is more distraught and misty than he used to be, and
takes the marriage and the parting very much to heart. But he is greatly
comforted by having his old ally, Ned Cuttle, at his side; and he sits down to
supper with a grateful and contented face.
`My boy has been preserved and thrives,' says old Sol Gills, rubbing his
hands. `What right have I to be otherwise than thankful and happy!'
The Captain, who has not yet taken his seat at the table, but who has been
fidgeting about for some time, and now stands hesitating in his place, looks
doubtfully at Mr. Gills, and says:
`Sol! There's the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would you wish
to have it up to-night, my boy, and drink to Wal'r and his wife?'
The Instrument-maker, looking wistfully at the Captain, puts his hand into
the breast-pocket of his coffee-coloured coat, brings forth his pocket-book, and
takes a letter out.
`To Mr. Dombey,' says the old man. `From Walter. To be sent in three weeks'
time. I'll read it.'
`"Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone with me upon a distant
voyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or you, but God knows
that I am.
`"Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have yet, without remorse,
united her to the uncertainties and dangers of my life, I will not say to you.
You know why, and you are her father.
`"Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you.
`"I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive me. There is nothing I
expect less. But if an hour should come when it will comfort you to believe that
Florence has some one ever near her, the great charge of whose life is to cancel
her remembrance of past sorrow, I solemnly assure you, you may, in that hour,
rest in that belief."'
Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket-book, and puts back his
pocket-book in his coat.
`We won't drink the last bottle of the old Madeira yet, Ned,' says the old
man thoughtfully. `Not yet.'
`Not yet,' assents the Captain. `No. Not yet.'
Susan and Mr. Toots are of the same opinion. After a silence they all sit
down to supper, and drink to the young husband and wife in something else; and
the last bottle of the old Madeira still remains among its dust and cobwebs,
undisturbed.
A few days have elapsed, and a stately ship is out at sea, spreading its
white wings to the favouring wind.
Upon the deck, image to the roughest man on board of something that is
graceful, beautiful, and harmless--something that it is good and pleasant to
have there, and that should make the voyage prosperous--is Florence. It is
night, and she and Walter sit alone, watching the solemn path of light upon the
sea between them and the moon.
At length she cannot see it plainly, for the tears that fill her eyes; and
then she lays her head down on his breast, and puts her arms around his neck,
saying, `Oh Walter, dearest love, I am so happy!'
Her husband holds her to his heart, and they are very quiet, and the stately
ship goes on serenely.
`As I hear the sea,' says Florence, `and sit watching it, it brings so many
days into my mind. It makes me think so much'
`Of Paul, my love. I know it does.'
Of Paul and Walter. And the voices in the waves are always whispering to
Florence, in their ceaseless murmuring, of love--of love, eternal and
illimitable, not bounded by the confines of this world, or by the end of time,
but ranging still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible country far
away!
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