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!’