<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"></SPAN></p>
<h2> CHAPTER 31. The Wedding </h2>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'Dombey!' says the Major, putting out both hands, 'how are you?'</p>
<p>'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'how are You?'</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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!'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'You are good enough to say so, Major,' says Mr Dombey.</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>'Oh, really, Major—'</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>'My dear Major Bagstock,' says Mr Dombey, with a gratified air, 'you are
quite warm.'</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'I assure you that I am really obliged to you. I
had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.'</p>
<p>'Not too partial, Sir!' exclaims the choleric Major. 'Dombey, I deny it.'</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'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!'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'The very day is auspicious,' says Mr Carker. 'The brightest and most
genial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?'</p>
<p>'Punctual to your time, Sir,' says the Major.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'Mrs Dombey, that is to be,' returns Mr Dombey, condescendingly, 'will be
very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.'</p>
<p>'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!'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'Had she not better stay with you?' returns the Bridegroom.</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>The affectionate Mama presses her daughter's arm, as she says this;
perhaps entreating her attention earnestly.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'If wishes,' says he in a low voice, 'are not superfluous, applied to such
a union.'</p>
<p>'I thank you, Sir,' she answers, with a curled lip, and a heaving bosom.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'A—in fact it's not a—' Cousin Feenix beginning again, thus,
comes to a dead stop.</p>
<p>'Hear, hear!' says the Major, in a tone of conviction.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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—'</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>'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—'</p>
<p>Here there is general applause.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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!"'</p>
<p>The Major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>Many smiles and nods from Mr Carker.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>The very words that Mr Carker rides into town repeating, with his mouth
stretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way.</p>
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