第 100 页

other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me, strongly

flavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning in a deep

voice, and our all being very attentive.

Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being the

first to cry, and of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory of

Pidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of Agnes

taking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent herself as

a model of sternness, with tears rolling down her face; of little Dora

trembling very much, and making her responses in faint whispers.

Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora’s trembling less

and less, but always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the service being

got through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking at each other in an

April state of smiles and tears, when it is over; of my young wife being

hysterical in the vestry, and crying for her poor papa, her dear papa.

Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the register all round.

Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to sign it; of

Peggotty’s hugging me in a corner, and telling me she saw my own dear

mother married; of its being over, and our going away.

Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet wife

upon my arm, through a mist of half-seen people, pulpits, monuments,

pews, fonts, organs, and church windows, in which there flutter faint

airs of association with my childish church at home, so long ago.

Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are, and what

a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry and talkative in

the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that when she saw Traddles

(whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked for it, she almost

fainted, having been convinced that he would contrive to lose it, or to

have his pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing gaily; and of Dora being so

fond of Agnes that she will not be separated from her, but still keeps

her hand.

Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty and

substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in any

other dream, without the least perception of their flavour; eating

and drinking, as I may say, nothing but love and marriage, and no more

believing in the viands than in anything else.

Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without having an idea

of what I want to say, beyond such as may be comprehended in the full

conviction that I haven’t said it. Of our being very sociably and simply

happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip’s having wedding cake, and

its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora’s going away

to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining with us; and

our walking in the garden; and my aunt, who has made quite a speech at

breakfast touching Dora’s aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but

a little proud of it too.

Of Dora’s being ready, and of Miss Lavinia’s hovering about her, loth to

lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant occupation.

Of Dora’s making a long series of surprised discoveries that she

has forgotten all sorts of little things; and of everybody’s running

everywhere to fetch them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say

good-bye, looking, with their bright colours and ribbons, like a bed

of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the flowers, and

coming out, laughing and crying both together, to my jealous arms.

Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), and Dora’s

saying no, that she must carry him, or else he’ll think she don’t like

him any more, now she is married, and will break his heart. Of our

going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping and looking back, and saying, ‘If

I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybody, don’t remember it!’ and

bursting into tears.

Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Of her

once more stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes, and giving

Agnes, above all the others, her last kisses and farewells.

We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it at

last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom I love so well!

‘Are you happy now, you foolish boy?’ says Dora, ‘and sure you don’t

repent?’

I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me. They are

gone, and I resume the journey of my story.

CHAPTER 44. OUR HOUSEKEEPING

It was a strange condition of things, the honeymoon being over, and the

bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sitting down in my own

small house with Dora; quite thrown out of employment, as I may say, in

respect of the delicious old occupation of making love.

It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always there. It was

so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out to see her, not to have any

occasion to be tormenting myself about her, not to have to write to her,

not to be scheming and devising opportunities of being alone with her.

Sometimes of an evening, when I looked up from my writing, and saw her

seated opposite, I would lean back in my chair, and think how queer it

was that there we were, alone together as a matter of course--nobody’s

business any more--all the romance of our engagement put away upon a

shelf, to rust--no one to please but one another--one another to please,

for life.

When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it seemed so

strange to me, as I was walking home, to think that Dora was at home! It

was such a wonderful thing, at first, to have her coming softly down to

talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a stupendous thing to know

for certain that she put her hair in papers. It was altogether such an

astonishing event to see her do it!

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping

house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She

kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she must have been

Mrs. Crupp’s daughter in disguise, we had such an awful time of it with

Mary Anne.

Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to us, when we engaged

her, as being feebly expressed in her name. She had a written character,

as large as a proclamation; and, according to this document, could do

everything of a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a great many

things that I never did hear of. She was a woman in the prime of life;

of a severe countenance; and subject (particularly in the arms) to

a sort of perpetual measles or fiery rash. She had a cousin in the

Life-Guards, with such long legs that he looked like the afternoon

shadow of somebody else. His shell-jacket was as much too little for him

as he was too big for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it

need have been, by being so very much out of proportion to it. Besides

which, the walls were not thick, and, whenever he passed the evening at

our house, we always knew of it by hearing one continual growl in the

kitchen.

Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am therefore willing to

believe that she was in a fit when we found her under the boiler; and

that the deficient tea-spoons were attributable to the dustman.

But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our inexperience, and

were unable to help ourselves. We should have been at her mercy, if she

had had any; but she was a remorseless woman, and had none. She was the

cause of our first little quarrel.

‘My dearest life,’ I said one day to Dora, ‘do you think Mary Anne has

any idea of time?’

‘Why, Doady?’ inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, from her drawing.

‘My love, because it’s five, and we were to have dined at four.’

Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she thought it was

too fast.

‘On the contrary, my love,’ said I, referring to my watch, ‘it’s a few

minutes too slow.’

My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and

drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn’t

dine off that, though it was very agreeable.

‘Don’t you think, my dear,’ said I, ‘it would be better for you to

remonstrate with Mary Anne?’

‘Oh no, please! I couldn’t, Doady!’ said Dora.

‘Why not, my love?’ I gently asked.

‘Oh, because I am such a little goose,’ said Dora, ‘and she knows I am!’

I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any

system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.

‘Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy’s forehead!’ said Dora, and still

being on my knee, she traced them with her pencil; putting it to her

rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working at my forehead with a

quaint little mockery of being industrious, that quite delighted me in

spite of myself.

‘There’s a good child,’ said Dora, ‘it makes its face so much prettier

to laugh.’ ‘But, my love,’ said I.

‘No, no! please!’ cried Dora, with a kiss, ‘don’t be a naughty Blue

Beard! Don’t be serious!’

‘My precious wife,’ said I, ‘we must be serious sometimes. Come! Sit

down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let

us talk sensibly. You know, dear’; what a little hand it was to hold,

and what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see! ‘You know, my love, it is

not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one’s dinner. Now, is

it?’

‘N-n-no!’ replied Dora, faintly.

‘My love, how you tremble!’

‘Because I KNOW you’re going to scold me,’ exclaimed Dora, in a piteous

voice.

‘My sweet, I am only going to reason.’

‘Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding!’ exclaimed Dora, in despair.

‘I didn’t marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with such a

poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!’

I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and shook her

curls from side to side, and said, ‘You cruel, cruel boy!’ so many

times, that I really did not exactly know what to do: so I took a few

turns up and down the room in my uncertainty, and came back again.

‘Dora, my darling!’

‘No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married

me, or else you wouldn’t reason with me!’ returned Dora.

I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it

gave me courage to be grave.

‘Now, my own Dora,’ said I, ‘you are very childish, and are talking

nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out

yesterday when dinner was half over; and that, the day before, I was

made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry;

today, I don’t dine at all--and I am afraid to say how long we waited

for breakfast--and then the water didn’t boil. I don’t mean to reproach

you, my dear, but this is not comfortable.’

‘Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!’ cried Dora.

‘Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!’

‘You said, I wasn’t comfortable!’ cried Dora. ‘I said the housekeeping

was not comfortable!’

‘It’s exactly the same thing!’ cried Dora. And she evidently thought so,

for she wept most grievously.

I took another turn across the room, full of love for my pretty wife,

and distracted by self-accusatory inclinations to knock my head against

the door. I sat down again, and said:

‘I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal to learn. I am

only trying to show you, my dear, that you must--you really must’ (I

was resolved not to give this up)--‘accustom yourself to look after Mary

Anne. Likewise to act a little for yourself, and me.’

‘I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches,’ sobbed Dora.

‘When you know that the other day, when you said you would like a little

bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it, to

surprise you.’

‘And it was very kind of you, my own darling,’ said I. ‘I felt it so

much that I wouldn’t on any account have even mentioned that you

bought a Salmon--which was too much for two. Or that it cost one pound

six--which was more than we can afford.’

‘You enjoyed it very much,’ sobbed Dora. ‘And you said I was a Mouse.’

‘And I’ll say so again, my love,’ I returned, ‘a thousand times!’

But I had wounded Dora’s soft little heart, and she was not to be

comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailing, that I felt

as if I had said I don’t know what to hurt her. I was obliged to hurry

away; I was kept out late; and I felt all night such pangs of remorse as

made me miserable. I had the conscience of an assassin, and was haunted

by a vague sense of enormous wickedness.

It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. I found my

aunt, in our house, sitting up for me.

‘Is anything the matter, aunt?’ said I, alarmed.

‘Nothing, Trot,’ she replied. ‘Sit down, sit down. Little Blossom has

been rather out of spirits, and I have been keeping her company. That’s

all.’

I leaned my head upon my hand; and felt more sorry and downcast, as I

sat looking at the fire, than I could have supposed possible so soon

after the fulfilment of my brightest hopes. As I sat thinking, I

happened to meet my aunt’s eyes, which were resting on my face. There

was an anxious expression in them, but it cleared directly.

‘I assure you, aunt,’ said I, ‘I have been quite unhappy myself all

night, to think of Dora’s being so. But I had no other intention than to

speak to her tenderly and lovingly about our home-affairs.’

My aunt nodded encouragement.

‘You must have patience, Trot,’ said she.

‘Of course. Heaven knows I don’t mean to be unreasonable, aunt!’

‘No, no,’ said my aunt. ‘But Little Blossom is a very tender little

blossom, and the wind must be gentle with her.’

I thanked my good aunt, in my heart, for her tenderness towards my wife;

and I was sure that she knew I did.

‘Don’t you think, aunt,’ said I, after some further contemplation of the

fire, ‘that you could advise and counsel Dora a little, for our mutual

advantage, now and then?’

‘Trot,’ returned my aunt, with some emotion, ‘no! Don’t ask me such a

thing.’

Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in surprise.

‘I look back on my life, child,’ said my aunt, ‘and I think of some who