THERE is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the terrace.
The pastry-cook’s people have been there half-a-dozen times already; all
day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they were up this
morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is going to be
married to young Mr. Harvey.
Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted
upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly slept
a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the unswept
door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully towards the
enchanted house. Nothing short of omniscience can divine what visions of
the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most insinuating
butterman, are flitting across her mind—what thoughts of how she would
dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady—of how she would dress, if
she were only a bride—of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid,
conjointly with her sister ‘in place’ at Fulham, and how the clergyman,
deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful. What
day-dreams of hope and happiness—of life being one perpetual holiday,
with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold it—of every Sunday
being a Sunday out—of pure freedom as to curls and ringlets, and no
obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps—what pictures of happiness,
vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous to us, bewilder the brain
of the little housemaid at number six, all called into existence by the
wedding at the corner!
We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better
reason than commonly presents itself. It should be pleasant to us to
know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since
upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are very
easily bestowed.
But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from the
door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all fluttering
in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane Adams, who
comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking her in,
under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread forth in
state, and—sight of sights!—her young mistress ready dressed for church.
And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe and
edged themselves in at the chamber-door—there is Miss Emma ‘looking like
the sweetest picter,’ in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers, and all
other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and quality of
every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one moment, and
never forgets to her dying day)—and there is Miss Emma’s mamma in tears,
and Miss Emma’s papa comforting her, and saying how that of course she
has been long looking forward to this, and how happy she ought to be—and
there too is Miss Emma’s sister with her arms round her neck, and the
other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the children, who would
cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and yet sob for fear sister
Emma should be taken away—and it is all so affecting, that the two
servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane Adams, sitting down upon
the stairs, when they have crept away, declares that her legs tremble so
that she don’t know what to do, and that she will say for Miss Emma, that
she never had a hasty word from her, and that she does hope and pray she
may be happy.
But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was anything
like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and set out
with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most sumptuous
and dazzling manner. In the centre, too, is the mighty charm, the cake,
glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully. They agree
that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the barley-sugar
temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with this exception,
there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be handsomer. As
they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but Mr. John! to whom
Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and John says _he_ knows,
for he’s often winked his eye down the area, which causes Anne to blush
and look confused. She is going away, indeed; when Mr. John will have it
that she must drink a glass of wine, and he says never mind it’s being
early in the morning, it won’t hurt her: so they shut the door and pour
out the wine; and Anne drinking lane’s health, and adding, ‘and here’s
wishing you yours, Mr. John,’ drinks it in a great many sips,—Mr. John
all the time making jokes appropriate to the occasion. At last Mr. John,
who has waxed bolder by degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims
the privilege of a kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and
footsteps being now heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.
By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church, and
Anne of number six prolonging the process of ‘cleaning her door,’ has the
satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the papa and
mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off. Nor is this all, for
soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company all
beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but
having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look and
shut the street-door.
And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given
place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles,
and their contents are disappearing rapidly. Miss Emma’s papa is at the
top of the table; Miss Emma’s mamma at the bottom; and beside the latter
are Miss Emma herself and her husband,—admitted on all hands to be the
handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known. All down both
sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful to see, and
various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in a post of
honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma’s, reported to possess
unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary intentions
respecting her favourite niece and new nephew. This lady has been very
liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride abundantly
testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or even to what she
has done, for she put herself in close communication with the dressmaker
three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with some articles worked by
her own hands) fit for a Princess. People may call her an old maid, and
so she may be, but she is neither cross nor ugly for all that; on the
contrary, she is very cheerful and pleasant-looking, and very kind and
tender-hearted: which is no matter of surprise except to those who yield
to popular prejudices without thinking why, and will never grow wiser and
never know better.
Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better
pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the
day, have seats among the guests. Of these, one is a little fellow of
six or eight years old, brother to the bride,—and the other a girl of the
same age, or something younger, whom he calls ‘his wife.’ The real bride
and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and attention,
and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little bouquet which he
gave her this morning, and placing the scattered rose-leaves in her bosom
with nature’s own coquettishness. They have dreamt of each other in
their quiet dreams, these children, and their little hearts have been
nearly broken when the absent one has been dispraised in jest. When will
there come in after-life a passion so earnest, generous, and true as
theirs; what, even in its gentlest realities, can have the grace and
charm that hover round such fairy lovers!
By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their
height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the
bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage which
is to take the young couple into the country has arrived. Such members
of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments, affect to
consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being speedily
confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select file of
intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly by the
withdrawal of the ladies generally. To this there ensues a particularly
awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious, and nobody
succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious disappearance in
obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the table is deserted.
Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and
settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no
sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are blocked
up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands, and
the dining-room panes with gentlemen’s faces beaming farewell in every
queer variety of its expression. The hall and steps are crowded with
servants in white favours, mixed up with particular friends and relations
who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost in the group are the
tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering hearts, what happiness
it would be to dash away together in that gallant coach, and never part
again.
The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when
the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement, and
they have left it far away.
A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering
among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has
made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness
of the departure. There are two points on which Anne expatiates over and
over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending to
leave off; one is, that she ‘never see in all her life such a—oh such a
angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey’—and the other, that she ‘can’t tell
how it is, but it don’t seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a Sunday
neither—it’s all so unsettled and unregular.’
[Picture: Departure of the Young Couple]