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.
"'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 bridesmaid 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—?
Aye, 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
