Чарльз Диккенс
Dombey and Son
‘My dear Dombey,’ said Cleopatra, ‘you will leave me Florence to-morrow, when you deprive me of my sweetest Edith.’
Mr Dombey said he would, with pleasure.
‘To have her about me, here, while you are both at Paris, and to think at her age, I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my dear Dombey,’ said Cleopatra, ‘will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely shattered state to which I shall be reduced.’
Edith turned her head suddenly. Her listless manner was exchanged, in a moment, to one of burning interest, and, unseen in the darkness, she attended closely to their conversation.
Mr Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable guardianship.
‘My dear Dombey,’ returned Cleopatra, ‘a thousand thanks for your good opinion. I feared you were going, with malice aforethought, as the dreadful lawyers say – those horrid prosers! – to condemn me to utter solitude.’
‘Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam?’ said Mr Dombey.
‘Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go home tomorrow, returned Cleopatra, that I began to be afraid, my dearest Dombey, you were quite a Bashaw.’
‘I assure you, madam!’ said Mr Dombey, ‘I have laid no commands on Florence; and if I had, there are no commands like your wish.’
‘My dear Dombey,’ replied Cleopatra, what a courtier you are! Though I’ll not say so, either; for courtiers have no heart, and yours pervades your farming life and character. And are you really going so early, my dear Dombey!’
Oh, indeed! it was late, and Mr Dombey feared he must.
‘Is this a fact, or is it all a dream!’ lisped Cleopatra. ‘Can I believe, my dearest Dombey, that you are coming back tomorrow morning to deprive me of my sweet companion; my own Edith!’
Mr Dombey, who was accustomed to take things literally, reminded Mrs Skewton that they were to meet first at the church.
‘The pang,’ said Mrs Skewton, ‘of consigning a child, even to you, my dear Dombey, is one of the most excruciating imaginable, and combined with a naturally delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the pastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost too much for my poor strength. But I shall rally, my dear Dombey, in the morning; do not fear for me, or be uneasy on my account. Heaven bless you! My dearest Edith!’ she cried archly. ‘Somebody is going, pet.’
Edith, who had turned her head again towards the window, and whose interest in their conversation had ceased, rose up in her place, but made no advance towards him, and said nothing. Mr Dombey, with a lofty gallantry adapted to his dignity and the occasion, betook his creaking boots towards her, put her hand to his lips, said, ‘Tomorrow morning I shall have the happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs Dombey’s,’ and bowed himself solemnly out.
Mrs Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house-door had closed upon him. With the candles appeared her maid, with the juvenile dress that was to delude the world to-morrow. The dress had savage retribution in it, as such dresses ever have, and made her infinitely older and more hideous than her greasy flannel gown. But Mrs Skewton tried it on with mincing satisfaction; smirked at her cadaverous self in the glass, as she thought of its killing effect upon the Major; and suffering her maid to take it off again, and to prepare her for repose, tumbled into ruins like a house of painted cards.
All this time, Edith remained at the dark window looking out into the street. When she and her mother were at last left alone, she moved from it for the first time that evening, and came opposite to her. The yawning, shaking, peevish figure of the mother, with her eyes raised to confront the proud erect form of the daughter, whose glance of fire was bent downward upon her, had a conscious air upon it, that no levity or temper could conceal.
‘I am tired to death,’ said she. ‘You can’t be trusted for a moment. You are worse than a child. Child! No child would be half so obstinate and undutiful.’
‘Listen to me, mother,’ returned Edith, passing these words by with a scorn that would not descend to trifle with them. ‘You must remain alone here until I return.’
‘Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return!’ repeated her mother.
‘Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow to witness what I do, so falsely: and so shamefully, I swear I will refuse the hand of this man in the church. If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement!’
The mother answered with a look of quick alarm, in no degree diminished by the look she met.
‘It is enough,’ said Edith, steadily, ‘that we are what we are. I will have no youth and truth dragged down to my level. I will have no guileless nature undermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the leisure of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must go home.’
‘You are an idiot, Edith,’ cried her angry mother. ‘Do you expect there can ever be peace for you in that house, till she is married, and away?’
‘Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in that house,’ said her daughter, ‘and you know the answer.’
‘And am I to be told to-night, after all my pains and labour, and when you are going, through me, to be rendered independent,’ her mother almost shrieked in her passion, while her palsied head shook like a leaf, ‘that there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am not fit company for a girl! What are you, pray? What are you?’
‘I have put the question to myself,’ said Edith, ashy pale, and pointing to the window, ‘more than once when I have been sitting there, and something in the faded likeness of my sex has wandered past outside; and God knows I have met with my reply. Oh mother, mother, if you had but left me to my natural heart when I too was a girl – a younger girl than Florence – how different I might have been!’
Sensible that any show of anger was useless here, her mother restrained herself, and fell a whimpering, and bewailed that she had lived too long, and that her only child had cast her off, and that duty towards parents was forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard unnatural taunts, and cared for life no longer.
‘If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this,’ she whined, ‘I am sure it would be much better for me to think of some means of putting an end to my existence. Oh! The idea of your being my daughter, Edith, and addressing me in such a strain!’
‘Between us, mother,’ returned Edith, mournfully, ‘the time for mutual reproaches is past.’
‘Then why do you revive it?’ whimpered her mother. ‘You know that you are lacerating me in the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive I am to unkindness. At such a moment, too, when I have so much to think of, and am naturally anxious to appear to the best advantage! I wonder at you, Edith. To make your mother a fright upon your wedding-day!’
Edith bent the same fixed look upon her, as she sobbed and rubbed her eyes; and said in the same low steady voice, which had neither risen nor fallen since she first addressed her, ‘I have said that Florence must go home.’
‘Let her go!’ cried the afflicted and affrighted parent, hastily. ‘I am sure I am willing she should go. What is the girl to me?’
‘She is so much to me, that rather than communicate, or suffer to be communicated to her, one grain of the evil that is in my breast, mother, I would renounce you, as I would (if you gave me cause) renounce him in the church to-morrow,’ replied Edith. ‘Leave her alone. She shall not, while I can interpose, be tampered with and tainted by the lessons I have learned. This is no hard condition on this bitter night.’
‘If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith,’ whined her mother, ‘perhaps not; very likely not. But such extremely cutting words – ’
‘They are past and at an end between us now,’ said Edith. ‘Take your own way, mother; share as you please in what you have gained; spend, enjoy, make much of it; and be as happy as you will. The object of our lives is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. My lips are closed upon the past from this hour. I forgive you your part in to-morrow’s wickedness. May God forgive my own!’
Without a tremor in her voice, or frame, and passing onward with a foot that set itself upon the neck of every soft emotion, she bade her mother good-night, and repaired to her own room.
But not to rest; for there was no rest in the tumult of her agitation when alone to and fro, and to and fro, and to and fro again, five hundred times, among the splendid preparations for her adornment on the morrow; with her dark hair shaken down, her dark eyes flashing with a raging light, her broad white bosom red with the cruel grasp of the relentless hand with which she spurned it from her, pacing up and down with an averted head, as if she would avoid the sight of her own fair person, and divorce herself from its companionship. Thus, in the dead time of the night before her bridal, Edith Granger wrestled with her unquiet spirit, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.
At length it happened that she touched the open door which led into the room where Florence lay.
She started, stopped, and looked in.
A light was burning there, and showed her Florence in her bloom of innocence and beauty, fast asleep. Edith held her breath, and felt herself drawn on towards her.
Drawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet; at last, drawn so near, that stooping down, she pressed her lips to the gentle hand that lay outside the bed, and put it softly to her neck. Its touch was like the prophet’s rod of old upon the rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it, as she sunk upon her knees, and laid her aching head and streaming hair upon the pillow by its side.
Thus Edith Granger passed the night before her bridal. Thus the sun found her on her bridal morning.
CHAPTER 31. 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-by 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?
