“Be silent, Atkins,” said Hodmadod. “Blockhead! When I say blockhead, I mean ass; and when I say ass, I mean you—Atkins. Do you think marriage consists in waistcoats? When I say waistcoats, do you think the holy and blessed state is made up of—of—satin and—and”—
“Not at all, sir,”—said the faithful Atkins.
“Well, then, be silent, and attend to my last words, or nearly”—Atkins stared—“as a bachelor. I must not be disturbed. I will ring for you; but on no account, and for no purpose whatever, break in upon me. You understand me, Atkins. I have my thoughts to compose—medicine to take—and many things to think of. A great moral demonstration to make, Atkins; when I say, a moral demonstration, I have to be a rock to-morrow; adamant—moral adamant, at the altar.”
“Must be staggering, sir; ’specially the first time. But you’ll go through it, sir,”—said the encouraging Atkins—“go through it, sir; with credit to yourself, and—and with honour to your country.”
“Blockhead, go. And you hear, if you suffer me to be disturbed, the world’s before you. When I say, the world’s before you, I mean my door is for ever behind you. Go,” and Atkins with a bow and a smile departed. Hodmadod prepared himself for rest. Yet, for a few minutes, he sat before the glass. He took the miniature of Agatha in his hand, and kissed it. Then his eye fell upon the soothing medicine; and as with a new impulse, and pressing the picture, again and again he saluted it. Then, laying it down, he took up the anodyne. He read the direction, translated by the chemist—“Half to be taken the last thing at night; half the first in the morning.” The whole was very little. Very little. A smile of self-satisfaction crept over the face of Hodmadod as his eye rested on the bottle. He had made a discovery; had achieved a wise thought, and his face was illuminated in token of the triumph. And still he considered the bottle; and silent, his mind thus talked.
“Very little in the bottle. When I say little, ’twould all go in a wine-glass. Half now, half in the morning! Why shouldn’t it be all taken now—all swallowed at once, and be done with? Why make two bites of a cherry? When I say a cherry, I mean physic. It must come to the same thing; must do the same work with the nerves, whether swallowed at once, or at twice. Then, why shouldn’t it do double work? Why not do all the bracing now, and have it over? To be sure. Why, what a fool that Doctor Stubbs must be—and after all, he doesn’t look so very wise—what a fool he must be to divide the stuff into two. No, no; I shall not separate them;” and Hodmadod, with a laugh, shook the medicine—“I shall not separate ’em,” talked his mind—“what the chemist has mixed together, let no man separate;” and, tickled by this timely joke, as he thought it, Hodmadod, with a nod at the miniature, swallowed all the anodyne, and made the best of his way to that bed, which he was to leave on the morning a rock—a piece of adamant—moral adamant.
Magnificently rose the sun, and with the sun rose Agatha.
“Uprose the sun, and uprose Emily.”
At earliest dawn, all Jericho’s house was astir; every servant—especially the maids—from the housekeeper to the smallest maid of the kitchen looking upon the day as a day in which she had some most especial interest. Every female heart beat churchwards. We will not dwell upon the thoughts of Agatha; how, when she awoke she already pictured to herself Arthur animated and hopeful; his face beaming with the like happiness that, she felt it, lightened her own; how she endeavoured to anticipate the hours, to see through the future; to look to eleven o’clock, and behold her bridegroom in the vestry of St. Shekels; the appointed place of rendezvous, within a few steps—and all a path of flowers—to the altar.
And, we regret to be compelled to confess it, that at the time the bridegroom was fast asleep; not even dreaming of the bride that was up and fluttering from lace to lace—from silk to silk.