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 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
than 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, like
wise, 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 funereal 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 Battlebridge; 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 curtesys; - 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 gorgeous 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, condescendingly, '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
cherubim 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 upstairs, 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.
The sun is shining down, upon the golden letters of the ten
commandments. Why does the Bride's eye read them, one by one? Which one of
all the ten appears the plainest to her in the glare of light? False Gods;
murder; theft; the honour that she owes her mother; - which is it that
appears to leave the wall, and printing itself in glowing letters, on her
book!
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"'
Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-Baden on 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 brides- maid
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 married to this man accordingly. And
will they in the sight of heaven - ? Ay, 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 ain'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 hands 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 cherubim'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 in 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
'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 fortnight 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 Mrs 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 wish 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. Anyone reviving the notion of the ball, would
be scouted as a malignant idiot.
Mrs Skewton sleeps upstairs, 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 of 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 tonight. 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
gentle manly 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.
The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces
Honest Captain Cuttle, as the weeks flew over him in his fortified
retreat, by no means abated any of his prudent provisions against surprise,
because of the non-appearance of the enemy. The Captain argued that his
present security was too profound and wonderful to endure much longer; he
knew that when the wind stood in a fair quarter, the weathercock was seldom
nailed there; and he was too well acquainted with the determined and
dauntless character of Mrs MacStinger, to doubt that that heroic woman had
devoted herself to the task of his discovery and capture. Trembling beneath
the weight of these reasons, Captain Cuttle lived a very close and retired
life; seldom stirring abroad until after dark; venturing even then only into
the obscurest streets; never going forth at all on Sundays; and both within
and without the walls of his retreat, avoiding bonnets, as if they were worn
by raging lions.
The Captain never dreamed that in the event of his being pounced upon
by Mrs MacStinger, in his walks, it would be possible to offer resistance.
He felt that it could not be done. He saw himself, in his mind's eye, put
meekly in a hackney-coach, and carried off to his old lodgings. He foresaw
that, once immured there, he was a lost man: his hat gone; Mrs MacStinger
watchful of him day and night; reproaches heaped upon his head, before the
infant family; himself the guilty object of suspicion and distrust; an ogre
in the children's eyes, and in their mother's a detected traitor.
A violent perspiration, and a lowness of spirits, always came over the
Captain as this gloomy picture presented itself to his imagination. It
generally did so previous to his stealing out of doors at night for air and
exercise. Sensible of the risk he ran, the Captain took leave of Rob, at
those times, with the solemnity which became a man who might never return:
exhorting him, in the event of his (the Captain's) being lost sight of, for
a time, to tread in the paths of virtue, and keep the brazen instruments
well polished.
But not to throw away a chance; and to secure to himself a means, in
case of the worst, of holding communication with the external world; Captain
Cuttle soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Rob the Grinder some secret
signal, by which that adherent might make his presence and fidelity known to
his commander, in the hour of adversity. After much cogitation, the Captain
decided in favour of instructing him to whistle the marine melody, 'Oh
cheerily, cheerily!' and Rob the Grinder attaining a point as near
perfection in that accomplishment as a landsman could hope to reach, the
Captain impressed these mysterious instructions on his mind:
'Now, my lad, stand by! If ever I'm took - '
'Took, Captain!' interposed Rob, with his round eyes wide open.
'Ah!' said Captain Cuttle darkly, 'if ever I goes away, meaning to come
back to supper, and don't come within hail again, twenty-four hours arter my
loss, go you to Brig Place and whistle that 'ere tune near my old moorings -
not as if you was a meaning of it, you understand, but as if you'd drifted
there, promiscuous. If I answer in that tune, you sheer off, my lad, and
come back four-and-twenty hours arterwards; if I answer in another tune, do
you stand off and on, and wait till I throw out further signals. Do you
understand them orders, now?'
'What am I to stand off and on of, Captain?' inquired Rob. 'The
horse-road?'
'Here's a smart lad for you!' cried the Captain eyeing him sternly, 'as
don't know his own native alphabet! Go away a bit and come back again
alternate - d'ye understand that?'
'Yes, Captain,' said Rob.
'Very good my lad, then,' said the Captain, relenting. 'Do it!'
That he might do it the better, Captain Cuttle sometimes condescended,
of an evening after the shop was shut, to rehearse this scene: retiring into
the parlour for the purpose, as into the lodgings of a supposititious
MacStinger, and carefully observing the behaviour of his ally, from the hole
of espial he had cut in the wall. Rob the Grinder discharged himself of his
duty with so much exactness and judgment, when thus put to the proof, that
the Captain presented him, at divers times, with seven sixpences, in token
of satisfaction; and gradually felt stealing over his spirit the resignation
of a man who had made provision for the worst, and taken every reasonable
precaution against an unrelenting fate.
Nevertheless, the Captain did not tempt ill-fortune, by being a whit
more venturesome than before. Though he considered it a point of good
breeding in himself, as a general friend of the family, to attend Mr
Dombey's wedding (of which he had heard from Mr Perch), and to show that
gentleman a pleasant and approving countenance from the gallery, he had
repaired to the church in a hackney cabriolet with both windows up; and
might have scrupled even to make that venture, in his dread of Mrs
MacStinger, but that the lady's attendance on the ministry of the Reverend
Melchisedech rendered it peculiarly unlikely that she would be found in
communion with the Establishment.
The Captain got safe home again, and fell into the ordinary routine of
his new life, without encountering any more direct alarm from the enemy,
than was suggested to him by the daily bonnets in the street. But other